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Ex lihris Henry S. Saunders 

\ATiitman Collection J 

Re hauL-oc' 6y /iriiiL^ I^Cf" 

oyf'at ft f '^"- /*?<»// f^^J 

Which reminds us that Harry got con- 
siderably ahead of us with his excellent 
comment on the Final Number of The 
Little Review. We didn't get our copy 
until just recently. One thing strikes us 
forcibly as we glance through it: how vast- 
ly important the lesser of its contributors 
seem to themselves. Here and there, how- 
ever, one is relieved by taciturnity: in gen- 
eral the taciturnity bears a direct relation 
to the importance of the writer. There are 
exceptions. But for the most part the most 
important writers react most briefly to the 
questionnaire set them. Most of all in the 
number we enjoyed the various snap shots 
of the editor, Margaret Anderson. She cer- 
tainly is a darn pretty girl. . . . 

S<3tt iW. r| AiA.' ^yj 

THE LITTLE REVIEW. New York. March 1918 
to December 192 0. 

Ulysses made its first printed ap- 
pearance in "The Little Review" edited in 
New York by Margaret C. Anderson and Jane 
Heap. Twenty-three installments appeared 
between March 1918 and December 192 0. The 
issues of January and May 1919 and January 
and July-August 192 were banned or con- 
fiscated by the U.S. Post Office. No 
further installments appeared after the 
September-December 192 issue and, thus, 
this first appearance of the text is 
incomplete. Although few copies of these 
issues are in existence, the Brown University 
file, shown here in part, is complete. 

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Frontispiece Portrait 

W. H. Hudson: Some Reminiscences Ford Madox Hueffer 

Hudson: Poet Strayed into Science Ezra Pound 

W. H. Hudson John Rodker , 

Nine Chinese Poems Witter Bynner 

L'Amazone Ghana Orloff 

Religion Maxwell Bodenhe'un 

Poems: Mark Turbyfill 

The Metaphysical Botanists 


Femme Enceinte Ghana Orloff 

The Other Woman ' Sherwood Anderson 

Danpeuses Ghana Orloff 

Danke Pseudomacabre William Garlos Williams 

Noble Words Maxwell Bodenheim 

Ghana Orloff Muriel Giolkowska 

Interim (conclusion) Dorothy Richardson 

Ulysses (Episode Xlll) James Joyce 
The Reader Critic 

^bscription price, payable in advance, in the United States and Territories, $2.50 
perjyear; Single copy, 2Sc. ; Canada, $2.75; Foreign, $3.00. Published monthly and 
copyrighted, 1920, by Margaret C. Anderson. 

Manuscripts must be submitted at author's risk, with return postage. 

Entered as second class matter March 16, 1917, at the Post Office at New York, 
N. v., under the act of March 3, 1879. 


27 West Eighth Street, New York, N. Y. 

/oreiffn Office: 43 Belsizf Park Gar^em, London, N, W, 3. 



IV. H. Hudson 

Some Reminiscences 

by Ford Madox Huejfer 

FOR a long, long time I dare say for twenty-five years — I 
have been longing to say something about Hudson. But 
what is there to say? Of things immense, tranquil or con- 
summate, it is difficult indeed to speak or to write. The 
! words are at the tip of the tongue; the ideas at the back of 
the brain . . . and yet: Nothing! So one says: "immense," 
"tranquil," "consummate." 

Suppose one should say that one would willingly cancel every one 
of the forty or so books that one has published if one could be given 
the power to write one paragraph as this great poet writes a para- 
graph 3 or that one would willingly give up all one's powers of visual- 
ising this and that if one could be granted this great naturalist's 
power of looking at a little bird. . . . But of course that would 
not bf enough. Or rather it would be nothing at all. For I suppose 
that if one had the power to frame one paragraph one could frame 
others: and if one had the vision of the poet one would be the poet's 
self. One might say — and indeed I do say with perfect sincerity — 
that one would willingly sacrifice all one's gifts as a writer if one 
could give to this unapproached master of English ten years longer 
pf writing life. . . , But even that would be selfish — for one 

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would have the pleasure : one would read what he wrote. 

For me, then, Hudson is the unapproached master of the English 
tongue. There are no doubt other English writers — though English 
as a language is woefully lacking in prose towards which one need not 
be kind — in unassailable prose. Still there are possibly other English 
writers. But there is no other English writer that you cannot say 
something about. One derives from Sir Thomas Browne — but is not 
as good ; another gets his effects from a profound study of the Author- 
ised Version but falls short of the resonance of the Inspired Original ; 
another has caught the jolly humor of Rabelais; when Mr. Peskith 
writes you might swear it was Montaigne speaking; someone else puts 
down the thoughts of Dante in the language of Shapespeare. . . . 
Well, we know the sort of stuff that English prose is. Only Hudson 
is different. 

The only English writer with whom I have ever had the luck to 
discuss the "how" of writing was Mr. Conrad. (I will say this for 
Americans that, if they practice letters, they are much more usually 
devoured by curiosity about what is called "technique." I have heard 
Mr. Owen Wister talk for quite a time on several occasions with Mr. 
James about the written word as a means of expression. I have talked 
for hours with members of the editorial staff of New York magazines 
— as to how to write a short story! — and I used to talk for hours with 
Stephen Crane — why is poor dear Stevie forgotten ; the finest poet 
that two continents produced in a century? — just about words! And 
Crane made the most illuminating remark about English prose that I 
ever heard). But the onl} true-blue English writers that I ever heard 
discuss how to write, as apart from how to make money by writing or 
who was the best Agent or the worst Publisher or the meanest Editor 
or the Best Seller — was, then, Mr. Conrad. 

And, once, Mr. Conrad looked up from reading "Green Mansions" 
and said: "You can't tell how this fellow gets his effects!" And, a 
long time after I had agreed that I couldn't tell how Hudson got his 
effects, Conrad continued: "He writes as the grass grows. The gjol 
God makes it be there. And that is all there is to it!" 

And that is all there is to it. "Green Mansions" is the only Eiglish 
novel of passion; the "Purple Land" is the onl\- English ncncl ui; 

The Little Review 

Romaiice (and 1 don't except Mr. Conrad's and my own Romances). 
"Natuie in Devonland," "Hampshire Days," "Birds in a Village" 
and the "Shepherds' Life" are the only English books about England. 
And ydu must remember that Mr. Hudson is an American of New 
England stock. 

"The Good God makes it be there!"— Was there ever a more 
splendid phrase uttered of a writer's prose? Every morning of my 
life I lie in bed and look at a piece of mutton fat dangling from a 
string outside the open window. Suddenly there is a flirt of wmgs: 
the njutton fat crepitates, as you might say, against the panes. But 
you sle nothing. Then the bird grows bolder, returns. It becomes 
a bir^ form; hanging; upside down from the piece of fat; peckmg 
rapidly. Against the morning light it looks grey, with dark margms 
on th^ head. It is one of the tits : the Great Tit, I dare say. 

\\^11: there it is and that's that! If you or I wrote about it, that 
woult be all there was to it. A Gilbert White wrote about tomtits 
running up drains in the neighbourhood of houses in search of succu- 
lent tnorsels. But imagine Mr. Hudson first watching the bird and 
then writing about it ! 

I juppose the chief characteristic of great writers — of writers who 
are ^reat by temperament as well as by industry or contrivance — is 
self-lbandonment. You imagine Mr. Hudson Avatching a tiny being 
andlhis whole mind goes into the watdiing: then his whole mmd 
goes into the rendering. Probably there is some delight in the 
watL-hing and more austerity, more diligence, in the act of recording. 
Thlt no doubt varies. Turgenev is such another as Mr. Hudson 
and I can recall no third, 

Turgenev, I mean, watched humanity with much such another en- 
grossment as Mr. Hudson devotes to Kingfishers, sheep or the grass 
of fields and rendered his results with the same tranquility. Prob- 
aliy, however, Turgenev had a greater self-consciousness in the act 
ofj writing: for of Mr. Hudson you might as well say that he never 
hi read a book. The Good God makes his words be there. . . . 
Still, in the "Sportsman's Sketches" and in the "Singers," the "Rattle 
of) the Wheels" and in "Bielshin Prairie" above all — you get that 
njte: — of the enamoured, of the rapt, watcher; so enamoured and so 

The Little R e v i e 

rapt that the watcher disappears, becoming merely part of the sur- 
rounding atmosphere amidst which, with no self consciousness, the 
men, the forests or the birds act and interact. I know, hovever, of 
no other writers that possess this complete selflessness. 

It is no doubt this faculty that gives to Mr. Hudson's vork the 
power to suggest vast very tranquil space and a man absoutely at 
home in it, or motionless vegetation, a huge forest and a traveler who 
wishes to go nowhere, or ever to reach the forest bounds. For you 
can suggest immensity in your rendering of the smallest of British 
birds if you know an immense deal about the bird itself ; if you have 
watched innumerable similar birds, travelling over shires, countries, 
duchies, kingdoms, hemispheres — and always selflessly. So tie ren- 
dering of one individual bird will connote to the mind of your reader 
— if you happen to be Mr. Hudson! — the great distances of country 
in which you have travelled in order that, having seen so many such 
birds, you may so perfectly describe this one. Great plains will rise 
up before your reader's mind: immensely high skies; distant blue 
ranges, far woodlands. . . . Tranquil spaces: immense dis- 
tances! . . . Consummate too! Because of course tlie Bon 
Dieu — I beg Mr. Conrad's pardon! — the Good God did sonething 
consummate when he gave to Mr. Hudson a style that is like the 
green grass growing! 


It is twenty-five — or twenty-four, or twenty-three ! — years ago 
since I sat with Conrad, one day in the drawing-room of my farm ; 
the Pent it was called. We were deep in the struggles that produced 
"Romance" and Conrad was groaning terribly and telling me — as he 
has told in several kingdoms, shires, duchies, countries and langaages 
— that I did not know how to write. Of course I didn't know how 
to write as Mr. Conrad did before he became a true-blue Englislman. 
At any rate we were engrossed. 

A man went past the window: very tall, casting a shadow icross 
the pink monthly roses. These commonplace Kentish flowers peeped 
over the window sill of the deep, living-room whose low dappled 

The Little Review 

ceilirg was cut in half by a great beam. So the tall man's shadow 
flickered across them 

It is disturbing when you, a man of letters, engrossed in the "Heart 
of tlie Country," see a shadow fall from a very tall stranger across 
your room and the monthly roses. You think of duns, bailiffs, unpaid 
butcler's bills. . . . But Conrad, always sanguine, hoping for 
the best (I never had many hopes when strangers approached me) 
excUimed: "That will be the man who wants to sell a horse!" Panic, 
anylow, seized us. Dans un grenier comme'on est bien a vingt ans! 
(I suppose I was twenty-four!) A panic! The immensely tall 
strariger repassed the window. 

Conrad went to the door. And I heard : 

Conrad: You've come about the mare! 

Ppice: I'm Hudson! 

Conrad: She's out with the ladies. 

mice: I'm Hudson! 

Conrad: The mare will be back in about half an hour. 

Hudson was staying at New Romney — which is New only in the 
sense that William I. built it in 1080 A. D. instead of Cassar in 
45 3. C. . . . Hudson then, was staying at New Romney and 
liad walked over — fourteen miles in order to pay his respects to the 
grejit author of "Youth," "Heart of Darkness," "Lord Jim," and 
"Amayer's Folly." . . . 

] remember Hudson again — there are more reminiscences! — in one 
of the beastly cafes in Soho. (They resemble Mouquin's in Sixth 
Aienue, New \ork, though I do not remember Mouquin's as being 
bastly, at all — but very expensive by comparison!) At any rate it 
wis the Cafe Riji, Soho. There were present Mr. Galsworthy, Mr. 
Hlaire Belloc, Mr. Edward Garnett . . , Mr, . 
Veil, I don't remember every one who was present. And just as 
]\{r. Belloc was shouting "Glorious County, Sussex!"— in came Mr. 

The dialogue went on like this: 

Belloc: Glorious county, Sussex! Glorious county, Sussex! You 
en ride from the Crystal Palace to Beachy Head with only four 
iecks ! 

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Five! said Mr. Hudson. It was like the crack of doom; like 
the deep voice of a raven ; like the sound of a direful bell. 

Belloc: Only four checks! There's Woking, and Cucking! and 
Ducking and . . . 

"Five!" said Mr. Hudson. 

Belloc: Only four checks! (He used a great many gesticula- 
tions, telling the names off on his fingers in the French way.) There 
are Woking and Cucking and Ducking and Hickley ... 

"Five!" said Mr. Hudson. 

Mr. Belloc repeated the queer names of Sussex villages. Then 
Mr, Hudson said: 

"East Dean!" Mr. Belloc threw his hand violently over his head 
as one used to see people do on the Western front : then began to 
tear, immediately afterwards, at his ruffled hair. He exclaimed "My 
God! What a fool I am!" and stated that he was a Sussex man: 
bred and born in Sussex: had never been out of Sussex for an hstant 
in his life: had ridden every day from the Crystal Palace to Jeachy 
Head. Yet he had forgotten East Dean. 

AH the while Mr. Hudson sat motionless: grave: unwinking: gaz- 
ing at his victim with the hypnotic glare of a beast of prey. O as if 
he were studying a new specimen of the genus Fringillago ! 


And I dare say that is how Mr. Hudson "gets his effects": pzing 
at his subject with the expressionless passion of a bird of prey: keep- 
ing as still as a tree: and then cutting down words to nothing. For 
the three words: the reiterated "Five" and the final "East Dan," 
convinced one that Mr. Hudson had lived on the South Dowis all 
his life and that you could trust him to take you from Brambr to 
Findon in pitch black night. Whereas the thousands of words that 
Mr. Belloc poured out only made you doubt that he had ever ben in 
Sussex in his life. 

Of course Mr. Belloc has lived in Sussex for a great part of hi; life, 
and Mr. Hudson was born in the Argentine, of New England tock 
— about 1790, I should say. I have heard him allege that whn he 

The Little R e v i e 

came to England he was the first member of his family to set foot on 
these Islands for 250 years. So maybe he descends from the Navi- 
gator. At any rate from those facts which may or may not be facts — 
for as to the real date of Mr. Hudson's birth I have only impressions; 
as for instance having heard him talk in terms of great intimacy of 
the Dictator Bolivar who flourished about 1820. . . . But 
then we can read "Far Away and Long Ago!" — so that at any rate 
from these facts, of Argentine birth, long absence from this country, 
immemorial antiquity, quietude and the exact habit of mind, we mav 
get certain glimpses of Mr. Hudson's secret. For Mr. Hudson is a 
secret and mysterious alchemist just as much as, or much more than. 
Dr. Dewar. 

Perhaps, owing to his Argentine birth and long racial absence from 
these Islands, Mr. Hudson has escaped the infection of the slippy, 
silly way we handle the language : he has escaped the Authorized 
Version and the Morte d'Arthur and someone's Rabelais and some- 
one else's Montaigne and Sir Thomas Browne's "Urn Burial," and 
all the rest of it. (I may as well put down here what 1 meant when 
I said just now that Stephen Crane said the most illuminating thing 
I ever heard as to the English prose of to-day. He was talking about 
the author of "Travels in the Cevennes with Mr. Colvin" — or what- 
ever the title was, and he said: "By God! when Stevenson wrote: 
'With interjected finger he delayed the action of the time piece,' when 
he meant *he put the clock back,' Stevenson put back the clock of 
English fiction 150 years." . . . Stevenson, as you know, was 
the sedulous ape of Walter Pater or someone like that, and decked 
himself out in allusions, borrowed words, stolen metaphors, inversions 
and borrowed similes for all the world like Charles Lamb or a 
Tommy coming back to the Line hung about with souvenirs). Well, 
Mr. Hudson has escaped all that. You would, as I have said, think 
he had never read a book in his life. Certainly he never read a book 
and carried off a phrase like "interjected finger" to treasure it as Ole 
Bill might treasure an Iron Cross raped from the breast of General 
Humpfenstrumpfen, lately deceased. Then too, born in the Argen- 
tine in remote ages, Mr. Hudson had the advantage of seeing the light 
in a Latin country — at least 1 suppose seventeenth centurj' Argentina 

10 TheLittlekevie 


was a Latin country — and so he was among a population who used 
words for the expression of thoughts. For, among us Occidentals, it 
is only the Latin races who use words as clean tools, exactly, with 
decency and modesty. You may see the same in the prose of Mr. 
Cunninghame Graham who was also of South American origin and 
is the only other true proseateur of these islands, since Mr. Conrad 
writes not English but literal translations from unpublished Frencli 
originals. (I suppose I ought to put in somewhere, "present com- 
pany always excepted" — for the sake of politeness to possible readers!) 
And then again, being the first of his family to visit England for 
2,500 years or whatever it was, Mr. Hudson has the advantage of 
being the first English writer to see this country — for at least that 
period. Just as he has escaped our slippy use of the language so hv* 
has escaped our slippy way of looking at a hill, a flower, a bird, an ivy 
leaf. Yesterday 1 picked the first cuckoo flower and the first kingcup 
of the year. When I got my hand well on the stem of the first I 
exclaimed : 

"When lady smocks all silver white 
Do tint the meadows with delight 

1 daresay I was misquoting, but I telt proud of myself and didn't 
look at the flower. 

When I grabbed the kingcup I said : 

"Shine like fire in swamps and hollows grey." And I felt proud of 
myself and didn't look at the flower. 

When I hear my first skylark I shall spout: 

"Hail to thee blithe spirit, 
Bird thou never wast. 

imd for the nightingale it will be: "Most musical; most melancholy!" 
and I shan't much look at, or listen to, either fowl. 
And it is the same with all us English writers. 

For again there is the question of this alchemist's great age. Actu- 
ally I believe Mr. Hudson lately celebrated his seventieth birthday. 
1 have however known him for twenty-five, twenty-four or twenty- 

The Little Review 11 

thjcc years, and when I first met him he was eighty-two and told 
personal anecdotes of the Court of George Washington. What I 
mean by all this fantasia is that Mr. Hudson has an air of consum- 
mate and unending permanence wherever he may happen to be, a 
weather worn air as of an ancient tree, an ancient wag, a very old 
peasant. Wherever you find him he will seem to have been there for 
ages and to be time-stained to the colour of the hedgerows, the 
heather, the downs or the country folic. So he fits in and trees, 
birds, or shepherds are natural when he is about. Mr. Hudson him- 
self is conscious of the fact, for he writes of Wiltshire in the opening 
pages of the "Shepherd's Life": "Owing to a certain kind of adaptive- 
ness in me, a sense of being at home wherever the grass grows, I am in 
a vay a native of Wiltshire too." .... And he is a native of 
Argentina, and La Plata, and Patagonia and Hampshire and the 
Sussex downlands — wherever the grass grows. That is perhaps the 
best gift that has been given to him by the Good God who has made 
him such a great poet. For simple people, shepherds, bird-catchers, 
girls wheeling perambulators, old women cleaning front stones. South 
American Dictators, gamblers, duellists, birds, beasts and reptiles, 
have been natural before him ; and the green earth and the sombre 
trees and the high downs and the vast Pampas have been just them- 
selves before him. He looked at them with the intent gaze of the 
birJ of prey and the abandonment of the perfect lover. 


Twenty-five years ago — really twenty-five years ago — I lay on mv 
back on the top of the great shoulder of the downs above Lewes — 
looking into the crystalline blue of the sky. There drifted above me 
frail, innumerable, translucent, to an immense height, one shining 
above the other, like an innumerable company of soap bubbles — the 
globelike seeds of dandelions, moving hardly perceptibly at all in the 
still sunlight. It was an unforgettable experience. . . . And 
yet it wasn't my experience at all. I have never been on that par- 
ticulai downs above Lewes, though 1 know the downs very well. 
And yet I am not lying! For you see, in the 90's of last century, I 

12 The Little Revie 


read that passage in "Nature in Downland" — and it has become part 
of my life. It is as much part of my life as my first sight of the 
German lines from a down behind Albert in 1916 . . . which 
is about the most unforgettable of my own experiences in the flesh. 

So Mr. Hudson has given me a part of my life. 
Indeed, I have a whole Hudson-life alongside my own . . . and 
such great pleasure with it. That is what you mean when you say a 
man is a creator ... a creative artist. He gives to the world 
vicarious experience. And such immense pleasure! 

I fancy that is really all there is to say — or at any rate what most 
needs saying as to this very great man. I believe that, until quite 
lately he was very little known in the Literary World — in that col- 
oured and fantastic cockpit where the Great Writers vote themselves' 
orders or diplomas, searchlight processions, cenotaphs, military funer- 
als; and whence lesser writers cut each other's throats for fourpencc 
and go up to Heaven clinging to the coat tails of the aforesaid Great. 
But, outside that world, in the realm of the mute, Hudson must havf; 
had a great many readers. I talk frequently with unlikely men in un- 
likely places — with farriers in France, with N'icars in hideous North 
Country towns, with doctors and chance people in mines — about 
books. The Great of course they won't have heard of ; the popular 
they will have read and will have forgotten or confused. But if you 

mention Hudson and they happen to have read Hudson 

Ah, then you will see a different expression on their faces! You 
will see them become animated, earnest, with eyes alive and with 
looks of affection — as one does of some one who is great, kind ; who 
has taught one a great deal ; who is part of one's family and of oneself 
That is a very great, a very splendid position to hold. 


Poet Strayed into Science 

by Ezra Pound 

HUDSON'S art begins where any man's art is felicitous in 
beginning: in an enthusiasm for his subject matter. If 
we begin with "The Naturalist in La Plata" we may find 
almost no "art" whatever ; there are impassioned passages, 
naive literary homages, and much unevenness and a trace 
of rhetoric in the writing. "The Shepherd's Life" must, at the other 
end of the scale, be art of a very high order; how otherwise would one 
come completely under the spell of a chaptei with no more startling 
subject matter than the cat at a rural station of an undistinguished 
British provincial railway. 

Hudson is an excellent example of Coleridge's theorem "the miracle 
that can be wrought" simply by one man's feeling something more 
keenly, or knowing it more intimately than it has been, before, known. 
The poet's eye and comprehension are evident in the first pages of 
"The Naturalist": the living ef^gies in bronze rising out of the white 
sea of the pampas. Then the uneven eloquence: 

"And with the rhea go the flamingo, antique and splendid ; 
and the swans in their bridal plumage ; and the rufous tina- 
mou — sweet and mournful melodist of the eventide; and the 
noble crested screamer. . . . These, and the other 
large avians, together with the finest of its mammalians, 
will shortly be lost to the pampas utterly." 

"What a wail there would be in the world if a 
sudden destruction were to fall on the accumulated art- 
treasures of the National Gallery, and the marbles in the 
British Museum, and the contents of the King's Library — 
the old prints and medi;v\al illuminations! And these are 
only the work of human hands and brains — impressions of 

14 The Little R 

e V I e w 

individual genius on perishable material, immortal only in 
the sense that the silken cocoon of the dead moth is so, be- 
cause they continue to exist and shine when the artist's hands 
and brain are dust : and man has the long day of life before 
him in which to do again things like these, and better than 
these, if there is any truth in evolution. But the forms of 
life in the two higher vertebrate classes are Nr.lure's most 
perfect work ; and the life of even a single species is of in- 
calculably greater value to mankind, for what it teaches 
and would continue to teach, than all the chiselled mar'les 
and painted canvases the world contains; though doubtless 
there are many persons who are devoted to art, but blind 
to s me things greater than art, who will set me down as 
a Philistine for saying so. 

"And, above all others, we should protect and hold 
sacred those types. Nature's masterpieces, which are first 
singled out for destruction on account of their size, or 
splendour, or rarity, and that false detest, ble glory which is 
accorded to their successful slayers. In ancient times the 
spirit of life shone brightest in these; and when others that 
shared the earth with them were taken by death, they were 
left, bein-z more worthy of perpetuati(,n." 

One may put aside quibbles of precedence, whatever the value of 
evidence of man's fineness, and in an age of pestilence like our own 
there is li.ttle but the great art of the past to convince one that the 
human species deserves to continue ; there can be no quarrel between 
the archaeologist who wishes to hear the "music of the lost dynasty," 
or the gracious tmies of the Albigeoius, and tlie man who is so filled 
with a passion of the splendour of wild things, of wild birds which: 

"Like irnmortal flowers have drifted down to us on the 
ocean of time . . . and their strangeness and beauty 
bring to our irnaginations a dream and a picture of that un- 
known world, immeasurably far removed, where man was 
not; and \yhen they perish, ^orqething of gladness goes out 

T he Lit t le Review 15 

from nature, and the sunshine loses something of its bright- 


The voice is authentic. It is the priesthood of nature. Yet if an 
anthropologist may speak out of his pages to the "naturalist," it is 
not only the bird and furred beast that suffer. A bloated usury, a 
cowardly and snivelling politics, a disgustmg financial system, the 
saddistic curse of Christianity work together, not only that an hun- 
dred species of wild fowl and beast shall give way before the advance 
of industry, i. e., that the plains be covered with uniform and vermin- 
ous sheep, bleating in perfect social monotony; but in our alleged 
"society" the same tendencies and the same urge that the bright 
plumed and the fine voiced species of the genus anthropos, the favoured 
of the gods, the only part of humanity worth saving, is attacked. The 
milkable human cows, the shearable human ^heep are invited by the 
exploiters, and all other regarded as caput lupinum, dangerous: lest 
the truth should shine out in art, which ceases to be art and degen- 
erates into religion and cant and superstition as soon as it has tax- 
gathering priests; lest works comparable to the Cretan vases and 
Assyrian lions should be reproduced and superseded. 

There is no quarrel between the artist and Mr. Hudson, and he 
is right in saying that there would be more "'wail" over the destruc- 
tion of the British Museum than over the destruction of wild species. 
Yet how little the "public" cares for either. And how can it be ex- 
pected to care so long as so much of it is "at starvation level," so long 
as men are taught that work is a virtue rather than enjoyment, and 
so long as men render lip service to a foul institution which has per- 
petuated the writing of TertuUien and of men who taught that the 
human body is evil. 

As long as "Christendom" is permeated with the superstition that 
the human body is tainted and that the senses are not noble avenues 
of "illumination," where is the basis of a glory in the colour-sense 
without which the birds-wings are unapprehended, or of audition 
without which the bell-cry of the crested screamers is only a noise in 
the desert. 

^^ T he Little Re vie 

"Their strangeness and their beauty" may well go unheeded into 
desuetude if there be nothing to preserve tnem but usurers and the 
slaves of usury and an alleged religion which has taught the supreme 
he that the splendour of the world is not a true splendour, that it is 
not the garment of the gods; and which has glorified the vilest of 
human imaginations, the pit of the seven great stenches, and which 
still teaches the existence of this hell as a verity for the sake of scaring 
little children and stupid women and of collecting dues and maintain- 
ing its prestige. 

My anger has perhaps carried me away from Hudson who should 
have been my subject; yet his anger is germane to it. Mediaeval 
Christianity had one merit, it taught that usury was an evil. But in 
our day Rockefeller and the churches eat from the one manger, and 
the church has so far fallen into vacuity that it does not oppose 
"finance," which is nothing but a concatenation of usuries, hardly 
subtle, but subtle enough to gull the sheep and cow humans. 

And for the same system man is degraded, and the wild beasts 
destroyed. So I have perhaps not lost my subject after all, but only 
extended my author's exordium. 


The foregoing paragraphs can hardly be taken as introduction to 
Mr. Hudson's quiet charm. He would lead us to South America; 
despite the gnats and mosquitoes we would all perform the voyage 
for the sake of meeting a puma, Chimbica, friend of man, the most 
loyal of wildcats. And, as I am writing chis presumably for an 
audience, more or less familiar with my predilections, familiar with 
my loathing of sheep, my continual search for signs of intelligence in 
the human race, it should be some indication of Hudson's style that 
it has carried even me through a volume entitled "A Shepherd's Life," 
a title which has no metaphorical bearing, but deals literally with the 
subject indicated. 

"Caleb's shepherding period in Doveton came to a some- 
what sudden conclusion. It was nearing the end of August 
3nd he was beginning to think about the sheep which would 

T h e Little Review 17 

have to be taken to the 'Castle' sheep-fair on 5th October, 
and it appeared strange to him," etc. 

John B. Yeats has written somewhere: "I found that I was inter- 
ested in the talk, not of those who told me interesting things, so much 
as of those who were by natural gift truthful tellers" ; a phrase which 
is as good a qualification of Hudson's work as I can find. Hudson's 
books are indeed full of interesting things, of interesting "informa- 
tion," yet it is all information which could, like all information what- 
soever, have been made dull in the telling. But the charm is in Hud- 
son's sobriety. I doubt if, apart from the "Mayor of Casterbridge," 
and "The Noble Dames," and the best of Hardy, there is anything 
so true to the English countryside as Hudson's picture. F. M. 
Hueffer must not be forgotten; there is his "Heart of the Country," 
and passages in other of his books to maintain the level ; and Hueffer 
is perhaps at his best when he approaches most closely to Hudson's 
subject matter; when he is least clever, when he is most sober in his 
recording of country life. 

This is not however an arranging of hierarchies and an awarding 
of medals for merit. Hudson touches Hueffer when dealing with 
England and Cunninghame Graham in dealing with La Plata. And 
it is very foolish to wail over the decadence of English letters merely 
because some of the best work of these three men is possibly ten years 

It is perhaps faddism and habit that causes people still to gossip of 
Poe, when "El Ombu" has been written, not as a grotesque but as 
tragic elegy, as the ordered telling of life as it must have happened. 
And then Poe's prose? Poe's prose is as good as Hudson's in places, 
and Hudson is indubitably uneven; relieved if not by hokkus at least 
by the sense of the "special moment" which makes the hokku: thus his 
trees like images of trees in black stone. 

This image-sense is an enrichment, perhaps "dangerous" to the 
unity of his style, but very welcome to the lover of revelation. And 
to balance it there is the latent and never absent humour as in "Marta 

"What is, is; and if you talk until to-morrow you can not make it 
different, ftlthough ^ov may prove yo\»r$eIf a y?ry learned person." 


JV. H. Hudson 

by yohn Rodker 

R.HUDSON is a great writer, though not always a 
perfect writer. His mask of, and his preoccupation 
with, the "natural-man" would have become in time, 
I do not doubt, as tedious as Henry James's continual 
fuss with trivial relationships, had not Hudson's entire 
output been so small that a week would be ample to get through it.* 
His*' lapses; ovariotomised Burne- Jones's maidens, good-hearted 
bouTtder (but a perfect dear au fond), (the natural-man again) too 
mufeh' Exploited since by Mr. Wells; a Blake like "Father-of-the- 
Hotr^e" belong all to his novel, "A Crystal Age." Other works are 
free from them, for Hudson sprang full armed into literature with a 
first novel, "The Purple Land," somewhere in his thirties. One does 
not therefore talk about development when discussing Mr. Hudson. 
Each new book, however different from itj, predecessor, is yet well 
within his capacity. Flaubert, who started svith "Madam Bovary" 
at about the same period in life, can be definitely said to have devel- 
oped ; but 'The Purple Land" is in many ways more satisfying than 
"El Oinbu" or "A Crystal Age"; I do not know when "A Crystal 
Age" was written. It is magnificent and ingenuous in turns, its 
denouement appalling. 

Mr. Pound says somewhere that no tragedy is complete unless it be 
contrasted with an equally plausible happy-endini. He should ap- 
prove then of Mr. Hudson who to the most violent tragedy opposes 
beatific probabilities. Both "A Crystal Age" and "Green Mansions" 
contain unnecessary and therefore tragical tragedy of a violence to 
stun the reader. The epilogue to Turgenev's "Fathers and Children" 
seems to mc most like them. Both writers have much in common. 
Each has the same ease in handling his medium, the same limpidity'; 
each the same confidence and kindliness. Their brains, too, are per- 

*I note that Mr. Hudson had various scientific ragpograph? on the flora 
and fauna of South America to his credit. 

T he Lit tie Review 19 

fectly adequate but not quite such cutting instruments that they can 
take liberties with them. 

In England Hudson shares only with Conrad the laurels of writing. 
Both are foreigners. It should by now be an axiom that only foreign- 
ers can write a live English. Their senses are not dulled by tradi- 
tional thought-forms. New institutions give them seriously to think! 
Their brains are brand new and respond immediately to the new 
life. English is four continents and what more natural than that 
they should be seduced into writing that language. 

Conrad too, is preoccupied with the "natural-man," a variant on 
the "inspired-idiot" which certainly seems to be an indispensable in- 
gredient in great^Iiterature. 

Perhaps this is why (both being natural-men) they see women 
stereoscopically — very solid — once planted — planted for good ; a tight 
little bomb of the best explosive. Her curious immobility, dreading, 
yearning, for the spark that will send her sky high. 

Again, so easily is the "natural-man" identified with one's own im- 
pulses that his mere bow from however remote a stage will send the 
gallery rocking. Like that wasp who to paralyse his victim must 
sting it only at nine fixed places, and must therefore identify himself 
with it, so Mr. Hudson identifies his creations, and his "natural-men" 
with the "libido" of his readers. 

Mr. Hudson can therefore afford to do his writing on the generous 
side. If the phrase will about do, that is good enough. The things he 
wants to say are concrete things, vital things, and it follows neces- 
sarily that his writing will be vital. Everybody has seen these things, 
or at any rate the next best thing. His job is rather to evoke pictures 
than to create them. And once he has registered what he wants to 
note his interest lapses. Were Mr. Hudson less of the "natural- 
man" he would have created a conscious art rather than an inspired 
one — an art not perhaps altogether satisfactory, but v(rhy quarrel with 
him because he does not want to write a temptation of Saint Anthony. 
In his own person Mr. Hudson points the moral of the vital decay 
in English letters during the last century^ the bored policeman and a 
life in towns being its probable causes. Certain it is that only Mr, 

20 The Little Review 

Cunninghame Graham or Conrad can be conceived of as writing the 
following passage, remarkable only in its very palpable "natural- 
manness." For strangely enough I do not know even one war book 
which has had the vigour to say it likes killing either as retribution or 
for the fun of the thing. His hero has just killed a man who was 
about to disembowel him. "Joy at the terrible retribution I had been 
able to inflict on the murderous wretch was the only emotion I ex- 
perienced when galloping away into the darkness — such joy that I 
could have sung and shouted aloud had it not seemed imprudent t^ 
indulge in such expressions of feeling." 

This is surely the authentic Billy Farnum touch. The Wild West 
endeared to an anaemic population with nothing on which to whet 
its appetites. It is in another way Voltaire's "L'Ingenue." High 
and low intelligences alike are seduced by it. Indeed the natural-man 
is our hippopotamus. We regard it as did Butler — to our febrile 
brains infinitely restful in the deliberate processes of his growth, his 
solid grip on earth. And when the natural-man is projected upon 
vast flowing pampas or sea the effect is psychologically as well as 
physically bracing. New vitality flows in. The artist has tapped a 
natural spring which we feed ourselves continually. The difficulty 
then of forming an estimate of the work of Mr. Hudson is insuper- 
able. At every stage one is seduced by an instinctive delight. 

At the same time (and it may be unreasonably) one feels without 
knowing exactly where and when that Mr. Hudson might have de- 
veloped a keener insight, with more bitterness or ambition in his 
method. I myself feel always that however much Hudson gets out 
of his subject he does not quite get all. It is this irreducible residue 
which makes Hudson almost but never quite intense enough. One 
does not feel this about Turgenev, Tchekhov, Conrad. 

It is perhaps here that Mr. Hudson's natural-man is not natural 
enough. He has become a little too unsophisticated, his gaze has 
been withdrawn from his navel and now scans the skies. That he 
can show these qualities is evident, for there is a perfect chapter in 
the Art of Calculated Reven'jc in "GfRen Mansions," but it appears 
to be a feeling of which he Is ashamed. It ^oes not occur again. Mr 

yj, H: D3.yi?^§ ^^h9 p^sse^^^^^s. but in fl'lfcr-Rt P'^^'^portiQn?' th? quaii- 

T he Little Review 21 

ties of Hudson, by a g^d admixture of the qualities hate, ambition, 
etc., conveys a denser impression. 

Perhaps the quality of ambition is not compatible with so absorbed 
an interest in the Brute Creation as Mr. Hudson shows. He has 
spent so much time in proving them not dumb (in a series of books 
each more charming than the last), marvelling at the unanimity of 
their instincts, their beauty and intelligence, that the study of man 
was neglected. It is a study that may of course grow in intensity the 
more it is neglected, your solitary being quite the most entertaining 
critic of man; but in this case it has made Mr. Hudson too toler- 
ant of man or too sorry for him to wish to scourge or flay him. 
Men's treatment of the aigret inspires him to a noble fury, but where 
man is concerned — dare we say it — Mr. Hudson is too reasonable. 
He would no doubt reply that he has always detested vivisection. 

It is illuminating to compare Mr. Hudson with another naturalist, 
Mr. Fabre, on the subject of "natural selection," that bugbear of 
biology. Remember that Mr. Hudson was born seventy years ago, 
that he attained manhood in the full flood of materialism — Huxley, 
Spencer, and a world settling down to an implicit faith in Darwinism. 
Just as before Copernicus men saw the universe as so many candles 
to light earth, Darwin and his disciples saw m the brute creation so 
many adaptations and curious instincts which could be interpreted en- 
tirely anthroraorphically. For instance, when Mr. Hudson, discuss- 
ing the habits of cattle, suggests that the dying animal is killed by the 
herd in a panic-stricken attempt to save it from the clutches of an 
invisible enemy, he is only too reasonable. But surely this very reason- 
ableness is in itself suspect. A human explanation will satisfy a 
human mind, but one wants something more convincing. Obviously, 
since we have only our minds, there is no means of knowing save 
only by that community of instinct which enables the wasp to sting 
its caterpillar in nine places,, and those the only possible nine places. 
A reason which is as good an explanation as that will alone satisfy us. 
Our tribute to Mr. Hudson must be that his reasons are always 
amazingly plausible and show a great wealth of poetic vision. 
Again Mr. Hudson: — 

"Why or how animals come to be possessed of the power of emit- 


The Little Review 

ting pestiferous odours is a mystery: we only see that natural selection 
has in some instances, chiefly among insects.'taken advantage of it to 
furnish some of the weaker, more unprotected species with a means 
of escape from their enemies." This is very cautious, but even so the 
converse of the proposition is equally true, but one has to realise how 
very important a credo was the Darwinian theory to our fathers, to 
understand how harsh a tyranny it exerted on even the best minds. 

Hear Fabre on the same subject— not so much the natural-man, he 
was the enraged scientist. His tribute was to stand five hours in a 
boiling sun feeding a wasp with caterpillars. His experiinents with 
insects were holocausts, yet with what scorn he speaks of the vivi- 
sector Curiosity only will explain his keenness, though he was not 
blind to esthetic aspects in his insects. Whereas Hudson started on 
his researches lured by the beautiful and interesting-the literary 
man's science— Fabre started with an insane curiosity in the insect. 
Certainly Fabre's seems the more vital impulse. 

"Pour ces motifs et bien d'autres, je repousse la theorie moderne de 
I'instinct Je n'y vois qu'un jet d'esprit ou la naturaliste de cabinet 
peut se complaire, lui qui faQonne la monde a sa fantaisie; mais ou 
I'observateur; aux prises avec la realite des choses, ne trouve seneuse 
explication a rien de ce qu'il voit." 

And again: — 

"L'insecte aurait-il acquis son savoir-faire petit a petit d'une genera- 
tion a la suivante, par une longue suite d'essais fortuits, de tatonne- 
ments aveugles? Un tel ordre naitrait-il du chaos; une telle pre- 
vision du hasard; une telle sapience de I'insense? Le monde est-il 
soumis aux fatalites d'evolution du premier atome albumineux qui se 
coagula en cellule ou bien est-il regi par une Intelligence Plus je 
vois, plus j'observe, et plus cette Intelligence rayonne derriere le 
mystere des choses." 

This explains as little as does Hudson's "natural selection." One 
has a god-the other "natural-selection": to the natural-man both i 
am afraid will be uninteUigible. What is clear, however, is that . 
Fabre appears to have been more profoundly exercised by the problems 

The Little Review 23 

he was up against. But to Hudson (and us) it seems natural for a 
chapter to begin with a strongly-smelling kind of bumble-bee, go on 
to the skunk and then to the deer which the gauchos believe suffo- 
cates the snake by running rapidly round it continually emittmg a 
stronger smell. 

Mr Hudson is eminently the literary man at grips with nature; 
in that way like Havelock Ellis. The result seems to be a profit and 
loss account, an absorbed concentration is replaced by a cultured m- 
terest, authorities are cited, relevances nosed out, still it isn t the real 
thing. Occasionally exciting or beautiful passages like these reward 

us: — 

"Riding on the pampas one dark evening an hour after sunset, and 
passing from high ground overgrown with giant thistles to a low 
plain covered with long grass, bordering a stream of water, I found it 
all ablaze with myriads of fireflies. I noticed that all the insects gave 
out an exceptionally large brilliant light, which shone almost steadi y. 
The long grass was thickly studded with them, while they literally 
swarmed in the air, all moving up the valley with a singularly slow 
and languid flight. When 1 galloped down into this river of phos- 
phorescent fire, my horse plunged and snorted with alarm. I suc- 
ceeded at length in quieting him, and then rode slowly through, com- 
pelled to keep my mouth and eyes closed, so thickly did the insects 
rain on to mv face. The air was laden with the sickening phosphorus 
smell they emit, but when 1 had once got free of the broad fiery 
zone, stretching away on either hand for miles along the moist valley, 
I stood still and gazed back for some time on a scene the most won- 
derful and enchanting I have ever witnessed." 

On Humming Birds: 

"In their plumage, as Marten long ago wrote, nature has strained 
at every variety of effect and revelled in an infinitude of modifica- 
tions How wonderful their garb is, with colours so varied, so in- 
tense yet seemingly so evanescent! the glittering mantle of powdered 
gold; the emerald green that changes to velvet black, ruby reds and 
luminous scarlets; dull bronze that brightens and burns like polished 

24 TheLittleReview 

brass, and pale neutral tints that kindle to rose and lilac-coloured 
flame. And to the glory of prismatic colouring are added feather 
decorations, such as the racket plumes and downy muffs of Spathura, 
the crest and frills of Lophornis, the sapphire gorget burning on the 
snow-white breast of Oreotrochilus, the fiery tail of Cometes, and, 
amongst grotesque forms, the long pointed crest feathers, representing 
horns, and flowing white beard adorning the piebald goat-like face of 

The Novels of W. H. Hudson 

"The Purple Land" is his first and one of his most engaging books. 
Written when the author was in his thirties, it is remarkable for its 
women, sketched in romantically like those of Turgenev, yet as alive 
as Madame Bovary, The brilliancy of their definition, their potential 
intensity, is a quality rare in the writing of the last fifty years. The 
book has great verve and is obviously the reaction of a highly impres- 
sionable mind. Demetria and Dolores are very sister to the women 
of Conrad. This outlook on women is I think due to long spells 
of hard work and absence of women on the part of its authors; the 
continual proximity of men probably helps. 

This is enough to make even the shabbiest women sinister. Within 
five years I am sure women of this type will form the basis of all 
women in fiction. 

It is full of adventure. A natural-man's book. The great heart of 
the American public should wallow in it. 

"South American Sketches" deals with the same tract as the last 
book, and contains five stories which force me to withdraw much of 
what I have said about Mr. Hudson's incapacity for vice. On the 
other hand, these stories have not the inevitability of the great story, 
but they are the next best things. They contain quite amazing para- 

"It happened on this march, about a month before the end, that 
a soldier named Bracamonte went one day at noon to deliver a letter 
from his captain to the General. Barboza was sitting in his shirt 

T he Little Revie^ 25 

sleeves in his tent, when the letter was handed to him, but just when 
he put out his hand to take it, the man made an attempt to stab him. 
The General, throwing himself back, escaped the blow, then instantly 
sprang like a tiger upon his assailant, and seizing him by the wrist, 
wrenched the weapon out of his hand only to strike it quick as light- 
ning into the poor fool's throat. No sooner was he down than the 
General, bending over him before drawing out the weapon, called to 
those who had run to his assistance to get him a tumbler. When, 
tumbler in hand, he lifted himself up and looked upon them, they 
say that his face was of the whiteness of iron made white in the 
furnace, and that his eyes were like two flames. He was mad with 
rage, and cried out with a loud voice, 'Thus, in the presence of the 
army do I serve the wretch who thought to shed my blood!' Then 
with a furious gesture he threw down and shattered the reddened 
glass, and bade them take the dead man outside the camp and leave 
him stripped to the vultures." 

These stories are widely varied in emotional range. Marta 
Riquelme is carefully worked up to a terrible denouement. 

"Green Mansions" should keep Mr. Hudson's name alive as long 
as English is spoken. It is romanticism carried to the nth power. 
Its milieu a charmed one. Impossible regrets assail the reader, a 
new life is like a dream-series superposed upon his own. Could one 
see reading as a delight and the inevitable martian to be introduced 
to those pleasures, then this would be the book. No other novel is as 
lyrical. It is too good to write about. 

"The Crystal Age" is a Utopia, pure and simple, marred — or 
rather made — just a little ridiculous by its too palpable Walter Crane 
and William Morris-ness. It is, however, nobler than either of these 
specialists. Reading this book one is convinced that a world of 
neuters would be nobler than this we inhabit, and the extermination 
of practically the entire species the best thing that could happen to it. 
His conception of tiny, isolated and remote colonies, each the cus- 
todian of some infinitely developed form of art, is magnificent. He 
is a great dreamer. 

26 The Little Review 

"There dwell the children of Coradine, on the threshold of the 
wind-vexed wilderness, where the stupendous columns of green glass 
uphold the roof of the House of Coradine; the ocean's voice is in 
their rooms, and the inland-blowing wind brings to them the salt 
spray and yellow sand swept at low tide from the desolate floors of 
the '^ea, and white winged birds flying from the black tempest scream 
aloud in their shadowy halls. There, from the high terraces, when 
the moon is at its full, we see the children of Coradine gathered 
together, arrayed like no others, in shining garments of gossamer 
threads, when, like thistle-down chased by eddying winds, now whirl- 
ing in a cloud, now scattering far apart, they dance their moonlight 
dances on the wide elaborate floors; and coming and going they pass 
away, and seem to melt into the moonlight, yet ever to return again 
with changeful melody and new measures. And, seeing this, all these 
things in which we ourselves excel seem poor in comparison, becoming 
pale in our memories. For the wind and waves, and the whiteness 
and grace, has been ever with them; and the winged seed of the 
thistle, and the flight of the gull, and the storm-vexed sea, flowering 
in foam, and the light of the moon on sea and barren land, have 
taught them this art, and a swiftness and grace which they alone 

And this — the last paragraph : — 

"Then a great cry, as of one who suddenly sees a black phantom, 
rang out loud in the room, jarring my brain with the madness of its 
terror and striking as with a hundred passionate hands on all the 
hidden harps in wall and roof; and the troubled sounds came back 
to me, now loud and now low, burdened with an infinite anguish and 
despair, as of voices of innumerable multitudes wandering in the sun- 
less desolations of space, every voice reverberating anguish and des- 
pair ; and the successive reverberations lifted me like waves and 
dropped me again, and the waves grew less and the sounds fainter, 
then fainter still, and died in everlasting silence." 

"A Little Boy Lost" is a charming story of a child who runs 
from home. The plot reminds one of Kingslcy's "Water Babies." 
It is an entertaining book, and children would like it, since it is 
written without side. 

The L ft tic Review 


The Nature Books of W. H. Hudson 

These are numerous. All are intensely Interesting, for he has a 
tirelessly inquisitive mind. Most of these books are about birds ; he 
has an especial sympathy for them. Others deal with English villages 
— "A Shepherd's Life," and so on. 

The South American books give us solid chunks of the life. For 
us that is the best function of the naturalist. But all these books 
will amply repay their reading, and I do not doubt in remembered 
pleasure and the vitality drawn from the projection of a wild life 
they will form a solid record for the future as permanent as anything 
we have. I quoted considerably from "The Naturalist in La Plata" 
at the beginning of this essay, but to deal adequately with these books 
would need another essay. I feel that it is impossible to criticise 
another's diary (for that is what these books are) ; it is too easy to 
say he is too good, or too evil, or not enough of either and to use 
that as a jumping board. He writes with charm and his deductions 
are often profound and illuminating, never commonplace. His sin- 
cerity cannot be questioned. 

Th€ Naturalist in La Plata 1892. Chapman and Hall. 

( Reprinted ) 
Birds in a Village 
Idle Days in Patagonia 
British Birds 
Birds in London 
Nature in Dowriland 
Birds and Man 

(Reprinted 1915) 
El Ombu 

(South American Sketches" 
Hampshire Days 
Afoot in England 
Green Mansions 

1903. John Dent, 

1893. Chapman and Hall. 

1893. Chapman and Hall. 

1895. Longmans and Co. 

1898. Longmans Green. 

1900. Longmans and Co. 

1901. Longmans and Co. 

1902. Greenback Liby. 

1903. Longmans and Co. 

1903. Hutchinson and Co. 

1904. Duckworth. 


The Little R ev i e 


A Little Boy Lost 



A Crystal Age 


Fisher Unwin. 

The Land's End 



A Shepherd's Life 



The Purple Land 



Adventures Among 



Hutchinson and Co. 

Far Away and Long Ago 


J. M. Dent and Sons. 

Nine Chinese Poems of the 
T'ang Dynasty 

^ / (A. D. 600—900) 

translated by JVitter Bynner and 
S, C. Kiang Kang-Hu 

A Spring Morning 

by Aieng Hao-Jan 

MORNING comes sweet to a sleeper in spring, 
Everywhere round him the singing of birds. 
And yet there was a storm last night, 
And I wonder how many flowers were broken. 

On a Lute 

by Liu Chang-Ch'ing 

The seven strings are like the voice 
Of a cold wind in the pines 
Singing an old beloved song 
Which no one cares for any more. 

T he Little Review 29 

To a Strayed M u si ci an 

(On meeting Li Kuei Nien in Chiang Nan) 

by Tu Fu 

I met you visiting Prince Ch'i 

And often at Ts'ui's have heard you play, 

But with spring nearly done, on the lower Yang Tsu, 

I meet you again, under shaken petals. 

A Moonlight Night 
by Liu Fang P'ing 

When the moon has colored half the house, 
With the North Star at its height and the South Star setting, 
I hear the first announcement of the warm air of spring 
From an insect singing at my green silk window. 

A New Bride 

by Wang Chien 

On the third day, taking place to cook, 

Washing hands for the maiden soup, 

I decide that not mother-in-law 

But husband's young sister shall taste it first. 

T h e T a II I nn 

by Wang Chih-Huan 

Till mountains cover the white sun 
And oceans drain the yellow river, 
You may add a thousand li* to your vision 
By climbing one more case of stairs. 

f ^ Chinese n^ile, a II, is abQut 3^ thir4 of j mile by western measure. 

30 T h e Lit t le Review 

The Street of Swallows* 

by Liu Yii-Shi 

Grasses grow wild by the Bridge of red Birds, 
And low is the sun in the Street of Swallows, 
Where wings, once visiting Wang and Hsieh, 
Flitter now through humble dwellings, 

* A Nan King street, decayed with the old capital. 

As I face the Gov em men t 

{to Chang) 
by Chu Ching-Yii 

\ Out go the great red waiting-hall candles. 

Tomorrow in state the bride faces your parents. 
She has finished her toilette, she asks of you gently 
Whether her eyebrows are painted in fashion. 

* On the eve of his final examination the poet hanpily addresses his friend who 
has received the degree and is an expert in the subject. 

Climbing to Lo Y u C emet ary* 

(Before starting for Wu Hsing) 
by Til Mu 

I could serve in a good reign, but not now. 
The lone cloud rather, the Buddhist peace. 
And I mount, before fallowing river and sea. 
Once more to the tomb of the Emperor Chao. 

* Lo Vu is in a suburb of HsiAn, the capital of the T'ang Dynasty. Officials 
and scholars liked being in the capital and not in the provinces. But here is one dis- 
satisfied with his ruler and choosing to go away. 



by Maxwell Bodenheim 

ALVIN TOR sat in his floating rowboat and read the 
bible. Green waves died upon each other like a cohesive 
fantasy. Each small wave rose as high as the other and 
ended in a swan's neck of white interrogation. Sunlight 
blinded the water as style dazes the contents of a poem, 
and the air fell against one like a soothing religion. The bristling 
melancholia of pine-trees lined the wide river. But Alvin Tor sat 
in his floating rowboat reading the bible. He read the Songs of 
Solomon and sensual pantomine made a taut stage of his face. When 
not reading the Songs of Solomon he was as staidly poised as a monk's 
folded arms. He had borrowed the colours of his life from that spec- 
trum of hope which he called God. Different shades of green leaves 
were, to him, the playful jealousies of a presence; the tossed colours 
of birds became the light gestures of a lost poet. His Swedish peasant's 
face had singed its dimples in a bit of sophistication, but his eyes 
were undeceived. His heart was a secluded soliloquy transforming 
the shouts of the world into tinkling surmises. His broad nose and 
long lips were always at ease and his ruddy skin held the texture of 
fresh bunting. His eyes knew the unkindled reticence of a rustic boy. 
This man of one mood sat in his floating rowboat and read the 
bible. He reached the mouth of the river and drifted out to sea. 
The sea was a menacing lethargy of rhythm ; green swells sensed his 
rowboat with dramatic leisure. A sea-gull skimmed over the water 
like a haphazard adventure. Looking up from his bible Alvin Tor 
saw the body of a woman floating beside his boat. With one jerk 
his face swerved into blankness. The tip of his tongue met his 
upper lip as though it were a fading rim of reality ; the fingers of 
one hand distressed his flaxen hair. The woman floated on her 
back with infinite abandon. Little ripples of green water died 
fondling her body. The green swells barely lifiting her were great 
rhythms disturbed by an inert discord. Sunlight, fumbling at her 
bpd^, relinquished its colour, Her wet brown hair had a drugged 

The Little Review 


gentility: its short dark curls hugged her head with despondent 
understanding. Her face had been washed to an imperturbable 
transparency. It had the whiteness of reclining foam overcast with 
a twinge of green— the sea had lent her its skin. Her eyes were 
limply unworried and violated to gray disintegration. In separated 
bits of outlines the remains of thinly impudent features were slipping 
from her face. The bloated pity of black and white garments hid her 
lean body. As Alvin Tor watched her, tendrils of peace gradually 
interfered with the blankness on his face. His lips sustained an 
unpremeditated repose; a sensitive compassion dropped the sparks of 
its coming into his eyes. His clothes became a jest upon an inhuman 
body. The earth of him effortlessly transcended itself in the gesture 
of his arm flung out to the woman. 

"Impalpable relic of a soul, the spirit you held must have severed 
its shadow to preserve you forever from the waves," he said, his face 
blindfolded with ecstasy, "for you grasp the water with immortal 
relaxation. You are not a body — you are beauty receding into a re- 
sistless seclusion." 

"Kind fool, musically stifling himself in a rowboat — made kind by 
the desperate tenderness of a lie— you are serenading the chopped 
bodies of your emotions," said the woman. 

Alvin Tor's face cracked apart and the incredulously hurrying 
ghost of a child nodded, a moment, and was snuffed out. The eyes 
of an ancient man drew his face into a premonition of pain. 

"Mermaid of haunting despondency, what are you?" he asked. 

"I am the symbol of your emotions," the woman answered. 

"I made them roses stepped upon by God," said Alvin Tor. 

"'I am the symbol of your emotions," said the woman. 

Alvin Tor heavily dropped his raised arm, like a man smashing a 
trumpet. Restless, white hands compressed the ruddy broadness of 
his face. The women slid into the green swells, like exhausted magic. 
Alvin Tor rowed back to the river bank. 

A woman lifted the green window shade in her room and resent- 

34 The Little Review 

fully blinked at the sun-plastered clamors of a street. She turned! 
to the bed lapon which another woman reclined. 

"Say, wasn't that a nutty drunk we had last night," she said. 
"Huggin' a bible and ravin' about waves and mermaids and a lot of 
other funny stuff." 

She dropped the green shade and stood against it, a moment, in the 
smouldering gloom of the gloom. Her brown hair had a drugged 
gentility; its short dark curlss hugged her head with despondent 
understanding. Her face had been washed to an imperturbable 
transparency. It had the whiteness of reclining foam overcast with 
.1 tinge of green — the sea had lent her its skin. 


by Mark Turbeyfill 

The Metaphysical Botanists 

— So it was asters? 

Haven't we now 

A little right to be proud ? 

For in the beginning 

Up there under the eaves 

Our minds silently lifted 

An unknown pollen 

Stirred by an unpretentious breeze. 

Then came the clanging of traffic, 
The rattle of chains. People passed 
' Like rattling chains. Hot drj^ winds 
Swept over the space 
Of that cloistered room. 
Spiritual poverty. No fertile rains. 
Could we be sure 
Our thoughts would bloom? 

The Little Review 


-Now we are smiling proudly, 
Trimmed with purple progeny 
Showering down from the eaves, 
From tlie window flower-boxes 
An unconquered laughter. 

We thought like asters 

Thrown against the wind. / 


Important pale asters 

And leering lilies painted peach color 

Writhing to a futile destination, 

Vibrant, popping out in lewd insurrection 

From the black border 

That essays to hold them down, \ 

A stiff ghost tree 

Rises out of a blue pond, 

Spreading abroad its asteroids of foliage, 

The sun-ball flares and fails 

On a distant line 

Like a disappointed toy balloon. 

Cat-tails of yellow splintered flame 

Prick up and press about 

A fluted pedestal 

Bearing a blossoming bowl. - " 

A queer gauche bird 

Perches on the rim 

And drinks some venomous brew 

Of which it faints and dies. 

A constellation of bereaved lemon leaves 

Flutters to earth in a funereal ballet 
Through the limpid mist 
Which descends upon this park of papier-mache. 


The Other IVoman 

by Sherwood Anderson 

^t 'W'AM in love with my wife," he said — a superflous remark, 
~ ' as I had not questioned his attachment to the woman he 


■ had married. We walked for ten minutes and then he 
^^ said it again. I turned to look at him. He began to talk 
and told me the tale I am now about to set down. 

The thing he had on his mind happened during what must have 
been the most eventful week of his life. He was to be married on 
Friday afternoon. On P'riday of the week before he got a telegram 
announcing his appointment to a government position. Something 
else happened that made him very proud and glad. In secret he was 
in the habit of writing verses and during the year before several of 
them had been printed in poetry magazines. One of the societies that 
give prizes for what they think the best poems published during the 
year put his name at the head of their list. The story of his triumph 
was printed in the newspapers of his home city, and one of them also 
printed his picture. 

As might have been expected, he was excited and in a rather highly 
strung nervous state all during that week. Almost every evening he 
went to call on his fiancee, the daughter of a judge. When he got 
there the house was filled with people and many letters, telegrams 
and packages were being received. He stood a little to one side and 
men and women kept coming to speak with him. They congratulated 
him upon his success in getting the government position and on his 
achievement as a poet. Everyone seemed to be praising him, and when 
he went home to bed he could not sleep. On Wednesday evening 
he went to the theatre and it seemed to him that people all over the 
house recognized him. Everyone nodded and smiled. After the first 
act five or six men and two women left their seats to gather about 
him. A little group was formed. Strangers sitting along the same 
row of seats stretched their necks and looked. He had never received 
so much attention before, and now a fever of expectancy took pos- 
session of him. 

3g The Little Review 

As he explained when he told me of his experience, it was for him 
an altogether abnormal time. He felt like one floating in air. When 
he got into bed after seeing so many people and hearing so many 
words of praise his head whirled round and round. When he closed 
his eyes a crowd of people invaded his room. It seemed as though the 
minds of all the people of his city were centered on himself. The 
most absurd fancies took possession of him. He imagined himself 
riding in a carriage through the streets of a city. Windows were 
thrown open and people ran out at the doors of houses. "There he is. 
That's him," they shouted, and at the words a glad cry arose. The 
carriage drove into a street blocked with people. A hundred thousand 
pairs of eyes looked up at him. "There you are! What a fellow 
you have managed to make of yourself !" the eyes seemed to be saying. 
My friend could not explain whether the excitement of the people 
was due to the fact that he had written a new poem or whether, in 
his new government position, he had performed some notable act. 
The apartment where he lived at that time was on a street perched 
along the top of a cliff far out at the edge of the city and from his 
bedroom window he could look down over trees and factory roofs to 
a river. As he could not sleep and as the fancies that kept crowding 
in upon him only made him more excited, he got out of bed and tried 
to think. 

As would be natural under such circumstances, he tried to control 

his thoughts, but when he sat by the window and was wide awake a 
most unexpected and humiliating thing happened. The night was 
clear and fine. There was a moon. He wanted to dream of the 
woman who was to be his wife, think out lines for noble poems or 
make plans that would affect his career. Much to his surprise his 
mind refused to do anything of the sort. 

At a corner of the street where he lived there was a small cigar 
store and newspaper stand run by a fat man of forty and his wife, 
a small active woman with bright grey eyes. In the morning he 
stopped there to buy a paper before going down to the city. Some- 
times he saw only the fat man, but often the man had disappeared and 
the woman waited on him. She was, as he assured me at least twenty 
times in telling me his tale, a very ordinary person with nothing 

The Little Review 3^ 

special or notable about her, but for some reason he could not explain 
being in her presence stirred him profoundly. During that week in 
the midst of his distraction she was the only person he knew who 
stood out clear and distinct in his mind. When he wanted so much 
to think noble thoughts, he could think only of her. Before he knew 
what was happening his imagination had taken hold of the notion of 
having a love affair with the woman. 

"I could not understand myself," he declared, in telling me the 
story. "At night, when the city was quiet and when I should have 
been asleep, I thought about her all the time. After two or three 
days of that sort of thing the consciousness of her got into my daytime 
thoughts. I was terribly muddled. When 1 went to see the woman 
who is now my wife I found that my love for her was in no way 
affected by my vagrant thoughts. There was but one woman in the 
world I wanted to live with me and to be my comrade in undertaking 
to improve my own character and my position in the world, but for 
the moment, you see, I wanted this other woman to be in my arms. 
She had worked her way into my being. On all sides people were 
saying I was a big man who would do big things, and there I was. 
That evening when I went to the theatre 1 walked home because I 
knew I would be unable to sleep,, and to satisfy the annoying impulse 
in myself I went and stood on the sidewalk before the tobacco shop. 
It was a two story building, and I knew the woman lived upstairs 
with her husband. For a long time I stood in the darkness with my 
body pressed against the wall of the building and then I thought of 
the two of them up there, no doubt in bed together. That made me 

"Then I grew more furious at myself. I went home and got into 
bed shaken with anger. There are certain books of verse and some 
prose writings that have always moved me deeply, and so I put 
several books on a table by my bed. 

"The voices in the books were like the voices of the dead. I did 
not hear them. The words printed on the lines would not penetrate 
into my consciousness. I tried to think of the woman I loved, but 
her figure had also become something far away, something with which 
I for the moment seemed to have nothing to do. I rolled and tumbled 

40 The Little Review 

about in the bed. It was a miserable experience. 

"On Thursday morning I went into the store. There stood the 
woman alone. I think she knew how I felt. Perhaps she had been 
thinking of me as I had been thinking of her. A doubtful hesitating 
smile played about the corners of her mouth. She had on a dress 
made of cheap cloth, and there was a tear on the shoulder. She must 
have been ten years older than myself. When I tried to put my 
pennies on the glass counter behind which she stood my hand trembled 
so that the pennies made a sharp rattling noise. When I spoke the 
voice that came out of my throat did not sound like anything that had 
ever belonged to me. It barely arose above a thick whisper. 'I 
want you,' I said. 'I want you very much. Can't you run away 
from your husband? Come to me at my apartment at seven to- 

"The woman did come to my apartment at seven. That morning 
she did not say anything at all. For a minute perhaps we stood look- 
ing at each other. I had forgotten everything in the world but just 
her. Then she nodded her head and I went away. Now that I think 
of it I cannot remember a word I ever heard her say. She came to 
my apartment at seven and it was dark. You must understand this 
was in the month of October. I had not lighted a light and I had 
sent my servant away. 

"During that day I was no good at all. Several men came to see 
me at my office, but I got all muddled up in trying to talk with them. 
They attributed my rattle-headedness to my approaching marriage 
and went away laughing. 

"It was on that morning, just the day before my marriage, that I 
got a long and very beautiful letter from my fiancee. During the 
night before she also had been unable to sleep and had got out of bed 
to write the letter. Everything she said in it was very sharp and 
real, but she herself, as a living thing, seemed to have receded into 
the distance. It seemed to me that she was like a bird, flying far away 
in distant skies, and I was like a perplexed bare-footed boy standing 
in the dusty road before a farm house and looking at her receding 
figure. I wonder if you will understand what I mean? 

"In regard to the letter. In it she, the awakening woman, poured 

The Little Review 41 

out her heart. She of course knew nothing of life, but she was a 
woman. She lay, I suppose, in her bed feeling nervous and wrought 
up as I had been doing. She realized that a great change was about 
to take place in her life and was glad and afraid too. There she lay 
thinking of it all. Then she got out of bed and began talking to 
me on the bit of paper. She told me how afraid she was and how 
glad too. Like most young women she had heard things whispered. 
In the letter she was very sweet and fine. 'For a long time, after we 
are married, we will forget we are a man and woman,' she wrote. 
'We will be human "beings. You must remember that 1 am ignorant 
and often I will be very stupid. You must love me and be very 
patient and kind. When I know more, when after a long time you 
have taught me the way of life, I will try to repay you. I will love 
j'ou tenderly and passionately. The possibility of that is in me, or I 
would not want to marry at all. I am afraid but I am also happy. 
O, I am so glad our marriage time is near at hand.' 

"Now you see clearly enough into what a mess I had got. In my 
office, after I had read my fiancee's letter, I became at once very reso- 
lute and strong. I remember that 1 got out of my chair and walked 
about, proud of the fact that 1 was to be the husband of so noble a 
woman. Right away I felt concerning her as I had been feeling 
about myself before 1 found out what a weak thing I was. To be 
sure 1 took a strong resolution that I would not be weak. At nine 
that evening I had planned to run in to see my fiancee. 'I'm all right 
now,' I said to myself. 'The beauty of her character has saved me 
from myself. I will go home now and send the other woman away.' 
In the morning I had telephoned to my servant and told him that I 
did not want him to be at the apartment that evening and I now 
picked up the telephone to tell him to stay at home. 

"Then a thought came to me. 'I will not want him there in any 
event,' I told myself. 'What will he think when he sees a woman 
coming to my place on the evening before the day I am to be married ?' 
I put the telephone down and prepared to go home. 'If I want my 
servant out of the apartment it is because I do not want him to hear 
me talk with the woman. I cannot be rude to her. 1 will have to 
make some kind of an explanation,' I said to myself. 

42 T he Lit tie Review 

"The woman came at seven o'clock, and, as you may have guessed, 
I let her in and forgot the resolution I had made. It is likely I never 
had any intention of doing anything else. There was a bell on my 
door, but she did not ring, but knocked very softly. It seems to me 
that everything she did that evening was soft and quiet but very 
determined and quick. Do I make myself clear? When she came I 
was standing just within the door, where I had been standing and 
waiting for a half hour. My hands were trembling as they had 
trembled in the morning when her eyes looked at me and when I 
tried to put tlie pennies on the counter in the store. When I opened 
the door she stepped quickly in and I took her into my arms. We 
stood together in the darkness. My hands no longer trembled. I 
felt very happy and strong. 

"Although I have tried to make everything clear I have not told 
you what the woman I married is like. I have emphasized, you see, 
the other woman. 1 make the blind statement that I love my wife, 
and to a man of your shrewdness that means nothing at all. To tell 
the truth, had I not started to speak of this matter I would feel more 
comfortable. It is inevitable that I give you the impression that I 
am in love with the tobacconist's wife. That's not true. To be sure 
I was very conscious of her all during the week before my marriage, 
but after she had come to me at my apartment she went entirely out 
of my mind. 

"Am I telling the truth? I am trying very hard to tell what hap- 
pened to me, I am saying that I have not since that evening thought 
of the woman who came to my apartment. Now, to t^U the facts of 
the case, that is not true. On that evening I went to my fiancee at 
nine, as she had asked me to do in her letter. In a kind of way I 
cannot explain the other woman went with me. This is what I 
mean — you see I had been thinking that if anything happened between 
me and the tobacconist's wife I would not be able to go through with 
my marriage. 'It is one thing or the other with me,' I had said to 


"As a matter of fact I went to see my beloved on that evening 
filled with a new faith in the outcome of our life together. I am 
afraid I muddle this matter in trying to tell it. A moment ago I said 

T h e Lit tl e R e V i e w 43 

the other woman, the tobacconist's wife, went with me. I do not 
mean she went in fact. What I am trying to say is that something 
of her faith in her own desires and her courage in seeing things 
through went with me. Is that clear to you? When I got to my 
fiancee's house there was a crowd of people standing about. Some 
were relatives from distant places I had not seen before. She looked 
up quickly when I came into the room. My face must have been 
radiant. I never saw her so moved. She thought her letter had 
affected me deeply, and of course it had. Up she jumped and ran to 
meet me. She was like a glad child. Right before the people who 
turned and looked inquiringly at us, she said the thing that was in 
her mind. 'O, I am so happy,' she cried. 'You have understood. 
We will be two human beings. We will not have to be husband and 

"As you may suppose, everyone laughed, but I did not laugh. The 
tears came into my eyes. I was so happy I wanted to shout. Perhaps 
5^ou understand what I mean. In the office that day when I read the 
letter my fiancee had written I had said to myself, *I will take care 
of the dear little woman.' There was something smug, you see, 
about that. In her house when she cried out in that way, and when 
everyone laughed, what I said to myself was something like this : 'We 
will take care of ourselves.' I whispered something of the sort into 
her ears. To tell you the truth I had come down off my perch. The 
spirit of the other woman did that to me. Before all the people 
gathered about I held my fiancee close and we kissed. They thought 
it very sweet of us to be so affected at the sight of each other. What 
they would have thought had they known the truth about me God 
only knows! 

"Twice now I have said that after that evening I never thought 
of the other woman at all. That is partially true but sometimes in 
the evening when I am walking alone in the street or in the park as 
we are walking now, and when evening comes softly and quickly as 
it has come to-night, the feeling of her comes sharply into my body 
and mind. After that one meeting I never saw her again. On the 
next day I was married and I have never gone back into her street. 
Often however as I am walking along as I am doing now, a quick 

44 T h e Lit tie Review 

sharp earthy feeling takes possession of me. It is as though I were a 
seed in the ground and the warm rains of the spring had come. It is 
as though I were not a man but a tree. 

"And now you see I am married and everything is all right. My 
marriage is to me a very beautiful fact. If you were to say that my 
marriage is not a happy one I could call you a liar and be speaking 
the absolute truth. I have tried to tell you about this other woman. 
There is a kind of relief in speaking of her. I have never done it 
before. I wonder why I was so silly as to be afraid that I would 
give you the impression I am not in love with my wife. If I did not 
instinctively trust your understanding I would not have spoken. As 
the matter stands I have a little stirred myself up. To-night I shall 
think of the other woman. That sometimes occurs. It will happen 
after I have gone to bed. My wife sleeps in the next room to mine 
and the door is always left open. There will be a moon to-night, 
and when there is a moon long streaks of light fall on her bed. I shall 
awake at midnight to-night. She will be lying asleep with one arm 
thrown over her head. 

"What is it that I am now talking about? A man does not speak 
of his wife lying in bed. What I am trying so say is that, because of 
this talk, I shall think of the other woman to-night. My thoughts 
will not take the form they did during the week before I was married. 
I will wonder what has become of the woman. For a moment I will 
again feel myself holding her close. I will think that for an hour 
I was closer to her than I have ever been to anyone else. Then I 
will think of the time when I will be as close as that to my wife. She 
is still, you see, an awakening woman. For a moment I will close 
my eyes and the quick, shrewd, determined eyes of that other woman 
will look into mine. My head will swim and then I will quickly 
open my eyes and see again the dear woman with whom I have under- 
taken to live out my life. Then I will sleep and when I awake in 
the morning it will be as it was that evening when I walked out of my 
dark apartment after having had the most notable experience of my 
life. What I mean to say, you understand, is that, for me. when I 
awake, the other woman will be utterly gone." 


Danse Pseudomacabre 

by TVilliam Carlos TVilliams 

THAT which is possible is inevitable. I defend the nor- 
mality of every distortion to which the flesh is susceptible, 
every disease, every amputation. I challenge any who 
thinks to discomfit my intelligence by limiting the import 
of what I say to an expounding of a shallow morbidity, 
to prove that health alone is inevitable. Until he can do that his 
attack upon me will be imbecilic. 

Allonsl Covimencons la danse. 

The telephone is ringing. I have awakened sitting erect in bed, 
unsurprised, almost uninterested, but with an overwhelming sense of 
death pressing my chest together as if I had come reluctant from the 
grave toward which a distorted homesickness continued to drag me, 
a sense as of the end of everything. My wife still lies asleep, curled 
against her pillow. Christ, Christ ! how can I ever bear to be separ- 
ated from this my boon companion, to be annihilated, to have her 
annihilated? How^ can men live in the face of this uncertainty?. 
How can a man not go mad with grief, with apprehension? 

I wonder what time it is? There's a taxi just leaving the club. 
Tang, tang, tang. Finality, Three oclock. 

The moon is low, its silent flame almost level among the trees, 
across the budding rose garden, upon the grass. 

The streets are illuminated with the moon and the useless flares 
of the purple and yellow street lamps hanging from the dark each 
above its little circular garden of flowers. 

Hurry, hurry, hurry! Upstairs! He's dying! Oh my God, my 
God, what will I do without him? I won't live! I won't — I 

What a face! Erysipelas. Doesn't look so bad. — In a few days 
the moon will be full. 

Quick! Witness this signature.^ — It's his will. — A great blubber 
of a thirty year old male seated, hanging, floating erect in the center 

T he Little Review 47 

of the sagging doublebed spring, his long hair in a mild mass, his 
body wrapped in a dawny brown wool dressing gown, a cord around 
the belly, a great pudding face, the whole right side of it dirty purple, 
swollen, covered with watery blebs, the right eye swollen shut. He 
is trembling, wildly excited— a paper on his unsteady knees, a fountain 
pen in his hand: Witness this signature! Will it be legal?— Yes, of 

course. He signs. I sign after him. When the Scotch go crazy 

they are worse than a Latin. The nose uninvolved. What a small 

My God, I'm done for. 

Oh my God, what will I do without him — ? 

Kindly be quiet, madam. What sort of a way is that to talk in 
the sick room? Do you want to kill him? Give him a chance, if 
you please. 

Is he going to die, doctor? He's only been sick a few days. His 
eye started to close yesterday. He's never been sick in his life. He 
has no one but his father and me. Oh, I won't live without him. 

Of course when a man as full blooded as he has erysipelas 

Do you think it's erysipelas? 

How much does he weigh ? 

Two hundred and forty pounds. 

Temperature 102. That's not bad. 

He won't die?! 

Are you kidding me, doctor? 

What for? — The moon has sunk. Almost no nose at all. Only 
the Scotch have such small noses.— Follow these directions. I have 
written down what you are to do. 

Again the moon. Again. And why not again? It is a dance. 
Everything that varies a hair's breadth from another is an invitation 
to the dance. Either dance or — annihilation. There can be only the 
dance or ONE. So, the next night, I enter another house. And so 
I repeat the trouble of writing that which I have already written and 
so I drag another human being from oblivion to serve my music. 

It is a baby. There is a light at the end of a broken corridor. A 
man in a pointed beard leads the way. Strong foreign accent. 

48 The Little R 

e vt ew 

Holland Dutch. We walk through the corridor to the back of the 
house. The kitchen. In the kitchen turn to the right. Someone 
IS sitting back of the open bedroom door, a nose and an eye emerge 
sniffing and staring, a wrinkled nose, a cavernous eye. Turn again 
to the right through another door and walk toward the front of the 
house. We are in the sickroom. A bed has been backed against the 
corridor entry making this detour necessary. 

O here you are, doctor.— British. The nurse 1 suppose. 

The baby is in a smother of sheets and crumbled blankets, its head 
on a pillow, a compress on its head, a large wet patch on the pillow. 
The child has its left eye closed, its right partly opened. It emits a 
soft whining cry continuously at every breath. It can't be more than 
a few weeks old. 

Do you think it's uncon.scious, doctor ? 


Will it live?— It is the mother. A great tender-eyed blond. Great 
full breasts. A soft, gentleminded woman ot no mean beauty. A 
blue cotton house wrapper, shoulder to ankle. 

If it lives it will be an idiot perhaps. Or it will be paralysed— or 
horh. It is better for it to die. 

There it goes now! Tiie whining cry has stopped. The lips are 
blue. The mouth puckers as for some diabolic kiss. It twitches, 
twitches faster and faster, up and down. 7'he body slowly grows 
rigid and begins to fold itself like a Hower closing again. The left 
eye opens slowly, the eyeball is turned in so that the pupil is lost in 
the angle toward the nose. The right eye remains wide open and 
iixed staring forward. Meningitis. Acute. The arms are slowly 
raised more and more from the sides as if in the deliberate attitude 
before a mad dance, hands clenched, wrists flexed. The arms now lie 
upon each other crossed at the wrists. The knees are drawn up as if 
the child were squatting. The body holds this posture, the child's 
belly rumbling with the huge contortion. Breath has stopped. The 
body is stiff, blue. Slowly it relaxes, the whimpering cry begins again. 
The left eye falls closed. 

It began with that eye. It was a lovely baby. Normal in every 
way. Breast fed. I have not taken him anywhere. It is only six 

The Little Review 49 

weeks old. How can he get it? 

The pointed beard approaches: It is an infection, is it not, doctor? 


But I took him nowhere. Where could he get it? 

He must have gotten it from someone who has it or carries it. 
Maybe from one of you. 

Will he die? 

Yes, I think so. 

Oh, I pray the Lord to take him. 

Have you any other children ? 

One girl, five, and this boy. 

Well, one must wait. 

Again the night. The beard has followed me to the door. He 
closes the door carefully. We are alone in the night. 

It is an infection. 


My wife is catholish — not I. She had him baptise. They pour 
water from a can on his head, so. It run down in front over him, 
there where they baptise all kinds of babies, into his eye perhaps. 
It's a funny thing. 


Margaret Anderson 

Foreign Editors: 
John Rodker Jules Remains 

Advisory Beard: 


Noble Words 

by Maxwell Bodenheim 

"I wish that the word sincerity could be dropped from the 
language . . . take the sincerity of the artist. It is not his 
business to be exact about life : the reality of things is not his con- 
cern." jh in the Little Review. 

I wish that the word insincerity could be dropped form the 
language. Only inanimate objects are sincere, because they never 
attempt to explain themselves. In a world animated by insincerity, 
the word insincerity should be discarded with all other glaringly 
apparent symbols, but the word sincerity should be retained. The 
latter is threadbare but holds the fantastic virtues. Up to date I 
have met a writer, a street-car conductor and a girl working in a 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 51 

textile mill who were sincere. I would not even vouch for their 
sincerity but I have considered it as a fascinating plausibility. These 
three people were not exact about life and the reality of things did 
not concern them, but this does not affect their possible sincerity. 
Their words, gestures, facial expressions and physical outlines seemed 
to be at all times effortlessly blended. When they smiled they were 
never sad ; when they were sad they never grinned ; they never hastily 
retrieved an awkward posture with a would-be brilliant word, or vice 
versa ; and when they scratched their heads a genuine, dominating 
doubt made their finger-nails methodical. The factory-girl did not 
go to church on Sundays because Someone had made her flat-footed 
and she refused to recognise the general goodness of his intentions 
until he corrected his error. She wore pink waists because they 
reminded her of strawberries — her favorite fruit — and when I told 
her that strawberries seemed to be red she placidly informed me that 
they were pink when they flavored ice-cream. When a wagon almost 
ran over her it left its aftermaths of shrinking attitudes in her body, 
for days. The street-car conductor played cards on Sundays; cursed 
when he lost; smirked when he won; and sat without his necktie. I 
once jocosely asked him why he wore neck-ties at other times. 

"Them things are only for show," he answerd. "People give you 
the once-over an' it makes you sore if you walk on the street without 
one. Besides, the women like 'em." 

He was uninteresting and sincere. 

The writer did not believe his own theories on art. He constantly 
abandoned them at irregular intervals but his work unfolded more 
steadily. Interested in this incongruity I questioned him. When 
my question made him sulkily bewildered I saw the possibility of his 
sincerity. A glibly immediate answer would have made me drop the 
subject. According to his words he kept his beliefs in motion because 
his creative voice liked to be entertained with an acrobatic show when 
not itself in motion. 


52 T he Lit 1 1 e Review 

Ghana O r I off 
by Muriel Ciolkowska 

Paris, April, 1920. 

MADAME Ghana Orloff's wooden statuette of an "Ama- 
zone" was on view at the Salon des Independents, the 
thirty-third held by this society since the war and one of 
the most remarkable in its annals. The same artist had sent,' also, 
the group of "Danseuses," a "Maternite," and a "Femme Enceinte." 

Among these the last-named departed, in my opinion, from the 
spirit which impelled the three others. It was, at any rate, in con- 
tradiction with them, and if it was right the others were wrong or 
visa versa. The "Femn:\e Enceinte" was deficient in that exquisite 
wit, spontaneous fancy, feminine feeling and originality evidenced in 
the Woman on Horseback, in that "Maternite" which, failing a 
photograph, it is most regrettably impossible to reproduce here. The 
"Femme Enceinte," on the other hand is the negative outcome of 
cold calculation, a type of that impoverished brain-work which is met 
with among certain "cubists" and other unimaginative theorists who 
would compensate want of inspiration by contempt for it, substituting 
ruse for intelligence bjf an appearance of scientific intervention. 

The "Amazone," being reproduced here, does not require descrip- 
tion. I may, nevertheless, be permitted to point out delicate flexi- 
bilities in the rider's figure and the horse's neck which are distinctly 
of a feminine character. In a totally different form similar finesse 
distinguished the work of one of France's greatest sculptors, a woman 
also. Jane Poupelet. 

In the "Dancers" the feet are unexplained. "Maternite" remains 
the warmest, the most unerring of Mme. Orloff's exhibited works. 

At the same show another Russian, Marie Vassioieff, was conspic- 
uous for some astonishing dolls, humorous portrait of contemporaries, 
— M. Paul Goiret, Monsieurs and Madame Andre Salmon, M. Fer- 
nand Leger, and so on, wihch are wonderfully devised and expressed. 

It occurred to me that Little Review readers would be sensible to 
the Qha,rm and wit pf "I^'Amazone,'' novel to sculptyr^ especially. 


by Dorothy Richardson 

C hapt er Ten ( Concluded] 

tt n|r SN'T it?" agreed Mrs. Bailey cordially. 

" "You must have been glad to get rid of the lodgers and 

I have possession of the whole house." 
"Yes" said Mrs. Bailey straightening the sideboard cloth. 
Hearty agreement about the advantages and disadvan- 
tages of boarders and then, I think it's very plucky of you and away 
upstairs. A few words about the interest of having boarders to begin 
getting to the door with. 

"The Irishman's an interesting specimen of humanity." 

"Isn't he interesting," laughed Mrs. Bailey moving further into 
the room. 

"It's much more interesting to have boarders than lodgers" said 
Miriam moving along the pathway of freedom towards the open 
door. Mrs. Bailey stood silent, watching politely. There was no 
way out. Mrs. Bailey's presence would be waiting in the hall, and 
upstairs, unappeased. Miriam glanced towards her without meeting 
her eyes and sat limply down on the nearest chair. 

"Phoo — it's rather a relief," she murmured. 

Mrs. Bailey went briskly to the door and closed it and came freely 
back into the room, a litle exacting figure who had seen all her selfish 
rejoicing. She would get up now and walk about the room, talking 
easily and eloquently about Eleanor's charm and go away leaving 
Mrs. Bailey mystified and disposed of. 

"My word" declared Mrs. Bailey tweaking the window curtains. 
Then Bailey was ready and anxious to talk her over. After seeming 
to like her so much and being so attentive and sending her off so 
gaily and kindly, she had some grievance. It was not the bill. It 
was a matter of opinion. Mrs. Bailey had been charmed and had yet 
seen through her. Seen what? What was the everlasting secret 
of Eleanor? She imagined them standing talking together, politely, 

54 The Little Review 

and joking and laughing. Mrs. Bailey would like Eleanor's jokes; 
they would be in agreement with her own opinions about things. But 
she had formed some idea of her and was ready to express it. If it 
explained anything one would have to accept it, from Mrs. Bailey. 
To make nice general remarks about her and enquire insincerely 
about the bill would be never to get Mrs. Bailey's uninfluenced opin- 
ion. She would not give it unless she were asked. 

"I'm awfully sorry for her," she said in Eve's voice. That would 
mean just her poverty and her few clothes and delicate health. There 
could be an insincere discussion. It might end in nothing and the 
mean selfish joy would still be waiting unstairs as soon as one had 
forgotten that it was mean and selfish. 

"So am r' said Mrs. Bailey heartily. There was anger in her face. 
There really was something, some really bad opinion about Eleanor. 
Mrs. Bailey thought these things more important than joyful free- 
dom. She was one of those people who would do things; then there 
were other people too ; then one need not trouble about what it was or 
warn people against Eleanor. The world would find out and protect 
itself, passing her on. If Mrs. Bailey felt there was something 
wrong, no one need feel blamed for thinking so. There was. What 
was it? 

"I'm the last to be down on anyone in difficulties," said Mrs. 

"Oh yes." It was coming. 

"It's the way of people / look to." She stopped. If she were not 
pressed she would say no more. 

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Bailey, has her bill been settled?" The 
voice of Mrs. Lionel „ . . she's unsquashable my dear, abso- 
lutely unsquashable. You never saw anything like it in your life. 
But she's done for herself in Weston. It might finish the talk. 

"That's all in order, young lady. It's not that at all." 

"Oh, I know. I'm glad though." 

"I had my own suspicions before 70U told me you'd be responsible. 
I never thought about that." 

"No, I see." 

"It's the way of people." 

T h e Lit tl e Re V iew 55 

"Well you know I told you at once that you must have her here 
at your own risk after the first week, and that I hardly knew any- 
thing about her." If she had paid the two weeks so easily perhaps 
Mr. Taunton was still looking after her needs. No. She would 
have mentioned him. He had dropped her entirely; after all he had 

"I'm not blaming you, young lady." Perhaps Mrs. Bailey had 
offered advice and been rebuffed in some way. There would be some 
mysterious description of character; like the Norwegian 
'selfish in a way I couldn't describe to you.' 

"If I'd known what it was going to be I'd not have had her in the 
house two days." 

some man . . . who? . . . but they were 
out all day and Eleanor had been with her every evening. Besides 
Mrs. Bailey would sympathise with that . . . She was furi- 
ously angry; "not two days." But she had been charmed. Charmed 
and admiring. 

"Did she flirt with some one?" 

"That" said Mrs. Bailey gravely. "I can't tell you. She may have; 
that's her own affair. I wouldn't necessary blame her. Everyone's 
free to do as they like provided they behave themselves." Mrs. Bailey 
was brushing at her skirt with downcast eyes. 

This woman had opened Dr. von Heber's letter ; knew he was 
coming next year; knew that he "would not have permitted" any 
talk and that all her interference was meanmgless. He was coming, 
carrying his suit case out of the hospital, no need for the smart edu- 
cated nurses to think about him . . . taking ship 
coming back. Perhaps she resented having been in the wrong. 

"It was funny how she found a case so suddenly," said Miriam 
drawing herself upright, careless, like a tree in the wind. She had 
already forgotten she would always feel like that, her bearing altered 
for ever, held up by him, like a tree in the wind, everyone powerless 
to embarrass her. Poor Mrs. Bailey ... 

"You see I feel I drove her to it, in a way." 

Mrs. Bailey listened smiling keenly. 

"Yes you see'' pursued Miriam cheerfully, "I told her she would 

56 T he Lit tie Review 

be all right for a week. I blamed you for that, said you were flour- 
ishing and she could pay when her ship came home." 

"That's what you told her, eh?" 

"Well and then when she admitted she had no money and I 
knew I couldn't manage more than a week, 1 advised her to apply to 
the C. O. S. She said she would and seemed delighted, and when 
I asked her about it later she cried and said she hadn't been. I said 
she must do something and then suddenly this case appeared. Where 
I don't know." 

"I don't blame her for not wanting to go there." 


"My word. I'd as soon go straight to the parish." 

"Wilberforce believes in them. He says if you really want to help 
the helpless you will not flaunt your name In subscription lists but 
hand your money over to the C. O. S. They are the only charitable 
organization that does not pauperise." 

"Him? Wilberforce? He has a right to his own opinions I don't 
deny. But if he'd ever been in difficulties he might change them. 
Insulting, that's my opinion. My word the questions they ask. You 
can't call your soul your own." 

"I didn't know that. That friend my sister brought here was 
being helped by them." 
. "How is Miss Henderson?" 

"Perfectly happy. Being with the Greens again seems Paradise 
she says, after London. She's satisfied now." 

"Mts. She's a sweet young lady; them's fortunate as have her." 

"Well now she's tried something else she appreciates the beautiful 
home. I don't think she wants to be free." 

"Quite so. Persons differ. But she's her own mistress; free to 

"Of course it's nicer now. The children are at school. She's con- 
fiidential companion. They all like her so much. They invented it 
for her." 

"And she is absolutely in Mrs. Green's confidence now. I don't 
know what poor Mrs. Green would do without her. She went back 
just in time for a most fearful tragedy." 

The Little Review Si 

"Mts; dear — dear" breathed Brs. Bailey, waiting with frowning, 
calm eagerness. Miriam hesitated. It would be a long difficult story 
to make Mrs. Bailey see stupid commercial wealth. She would see 
wealthy people, a "gentleman," living in a large country house and 
not understand Mr. Green at all; but Eve getting the bunch of keys 
from the irinmonger's and writing to Bennett to find out about 
Rupert Street . . . and the detective. She would have it in 
her mind like a novel and never let it go. it would be a breach of 
confidence. . . . She paused, not knowing what to do with 
her sudden animation. It was too late to get back into being an 
impartial listener, on the verge of going away. She had told every- 
thing, without the interesting details. Mrs. Bailey was waiting for 
them. They were still safe. She might think it was an illness or 
something about a relative. The only thing to do now was to stay 
and work off the unexplained animation on anything Mrs. Bailey 
might choose to say. 

"Well" said Mrs. Bailey presently, "to return to our friend. What 
I say is, why doesn't she go to the clerg>% in her own parish ?" 

"Go on the parish, m'm." 

"Not necessarily on the parish. The clergy's most helpful and 
sympathetic. They might tell her of those who would help her." 

"They might. But it's most awfully difficult. Nobody knows 
what ought to be done about these things." 

"That is so. But there's a right and a wrong in everything. 
There's plenty of people willing to help those that will help them- 
selves. But that's very different to coming into a person's house to 
try and get money out of strangers." 
1 say. 

"It is I say. I never felt so ashamed in my life." 

"I say. How did you hear of it? Did they tell you?" 

"Mrs. Hurd came to me herself." 

"Mrs. Hurd. Of course; it would be." 

"My word. I luas wild. And then only just come into my house." 

"Yes, of course; I say." 

"Tellin' them she was ill." 

"She is ill you know." 

58 The Little k 


"There's some imagines theirselves ill. If she was anything like as 
ill as I am she might have something to complain about." 

"I think she's rather plucky. She doesn't want to give in. It's a 
kind of illness that doesn't show much. I know her doctor. He's 
a Harley Street man. He says that her kind of disorder makes it 
absolutely impossible for the patient to tell the truth. I don't believe 
that. It's just one of those doctory things they all repeat . . ." 
What is truth said jesting Pilate and did not wait for an answer. 
Their idea of truth — 

"Well if she is ill why doesn't she act according?" 

"Look after herself a bit. Yes. That's what she wants to do. Bu-r 
not give in." 

"Quite so. That's a thing a person can understand. But that 
doesn't make it right to come to private people and beh"ave in the 
way she has done. Strangers. I never met such conduct, nor heard 
of it." 


"She's got relatives I suppose; or friends." 

"Well, that's just it. I don't think she has. I suppose the truth 
is all her friends are tired of helping her." 

"Well, I'm not judging her there. There's none can be so cruel 
as relatives, a$ / know my word." 


"They'll turn from you when you're struggling to the utmost 
to help yourself, going on ill, left with four young children, your 
husband cut off and not a penny/' 


"1 agree with her there. I owe all I have, under Providence, 
to my own hands and the help coming from strangers I had no claim 
on. But why doesn't she act open? That's what / say and I know 
it. There's alwaj's those ready to help you if you'll do your part. It's 
all take and no give with some." 

"Vampires. People are extraordinary." 

"You'd say so if you had this house to manage." 

"*1 suppose so." 

"You get your eyes open. With one and another." 

The Little Review 59 

"I'd no idea she'd even been talking to the Hurds." 
"Talk? Well I don't mind telling you now she's gone." 
"Well, she won't come back again. If she ever does Mrs. Bailey 
I hereby refuse all responsibility. On your head be it if you take 
her in. / can't keep her." 

"Well, as I say, I'm free to tell you. They used to go upstairs 
into the drawn-room, mornings, after breakfast. I could hear that 
woman's voice going on and on. I was up and down the stairs. 
What's more she used to stop dead the minute I came in." 
"Well I am sorry you've had all this." 
"I'm not blaming you, young lady." 
"What about all the others?" 

"Rodkin and Helsing's and Gunner's out all day." 
"Yes but the others? The Manns and the Irish journalist." 
"She'd be clever to get anything out of any of them/' 
"I wonder she didn't try Mrs. Barrow. She's kind I'm sure and 

"She's very kind no doubt in her way. Anyway she's not one of 
those who live on a widow woman and pay nothing." 

The old sense of the house was crumbling. To Mrs. Bailey it was 
ivorry and things she could not talk about to anyone, and a few nice 
people here and there. And all the time she was polite; as if she 
liked them all, equally. And they were polite. Everyone was polite. 
And behind it was all this. Shifts and secrets and strange charac- 
ters. When they were all together at Mrs. Bailey's dinner, they 
were all carrying things off, politely. Perhaps already she regretted 
having sent away the lodgers. 

"The doctors were nice people to have in the house." 
"Wasn't they dear boys? Fevy nice gentlemen. Canadians are 
the ones to my mind, though I believe as much as any in standing by 
your own. But you've got to consider your interests." 
"Of course." 

"That's why I mean to advertise. My word those Hruds are 
good friends if you like. I couldn't tell you. The old man's put an 
advert for me in the Canadian place in the city." 
"Then you'll have a houseful of Canadians." 

60 The Little Revie 


"That's what I hope. The more the better of their kind." 

"We shall all be speaking Canadian." 

"Well since we're on the subject Mrs. Hurd advises me to go to 
Canada. Says it's all work and no pay over here. Everybody expects 
too much for too little." 

How could she rejoice in the idea of a house full of Canadians? 
All the same. Canadian. It would change the house more and more. 
Mrs. Bailey would not mind that. The house meant nothing to her 
just as it was with its effect. She had to make it pay. If another 
house would pay better she would just as soon have another house. 

"You wouldn't like to leave London. There's no place like Lon- 
don." The Kurd's thought everyone in the house selfish, living on 
Mrs. Bailey's toil, enjoying the house for nothing, forgetting her. It 
was true . . uneasy in her presence. 

C h a p t er E lev en 

Miriam got up early the next morning and went to her window 
in her nightgown. There was a thick August haze in the square. 
The air smelt moist. She leaned out into the chill of it. Her body 
was full of sleep and strength; all one strength from head to foot. 
She heard life in the silence, and went through her getting up as 
quickly as possible, listening all the time to the fresh silence. 

She went downstairs feeling like a balloon on a string; her feet 
touching the stairs lightly as if there were no weight in her body. At 
the end of the long journey came the smiling familiar surprise of the 
hall. The hall-table was clear, a stretch of grey marble in the 
morning light. The letters had been taken into the dining-room. 
There was something, a package, on the far corner, a book package, 
with a note, Silurian blue, Eleanor. Small straggly round hand- 
writing, yes. Eleanor's, R. Rodkin, Esq: Ah. Mr. Rodkin. How 
had she done it? When? Carrying off a book. Pretending she had 
forgotten, and writing. Fiendish cleverness. What a blessing she 
had gone. Booming through her uneasiness came a great voice from 
the dining-room. Through the misty corridors of the Dawn it bel- 
lowed. She went gladly in towards poetry. Mrs. Bailey was pre- 

T h e Little Review 61 

siding over an early breakfast. The Irishman, sitting back mirthfully 
in his chair on the far side of the table and at his side a big stout 
man with a bushy black beard, brilliant laughing eyes staring at noth- 
ing from a flushed face. Mrs. Bailey was watching him with a 
polite smile; he looked as though he were at supper; making the 
room seem hot, obliterating the time of day. 1 expect you had a 
rough crossing, she sad politely. I saw her, he bellowed flinging 
back his head and roaring out words and laughter together. She walks 
in Beauty. I saw her sandalled feet ; upon the Hills. 



by yames yoyce 

Episode XIII {Continued) 

AND THEN there came out upon the air the sound of 
voices and the pealing anthem of the organ. It was 
the men's temperance retreat conducted by the mis- 
sioner, the reverend John Hughes S. J. rosary, sermon 
and benediction of the most blessed sacrament. They 
were there gathered together without distinction of social class (and a 
most edifying spectacle it was to see) in that simple fane beside the 
waves after the storms of this weary world, kneeling before the feet 
of the immaculate, beseeching her to intercede for them, holy Mary, 
holy virgin of virgins. How sad to poor Gerty's ears! Had her 
father only avoided the clutches of the demon drink she might now 
be rolling in her carriage, second to none. Over and over had she 
told herself that as she mused by the dying embers in a brown studv 
or gazing out of the window by the hour at the rain falling on the 

62 The Little Revie 


rusty bucket. But that vile decoction which has ruined so many 
hearts and homes had cast its shadow over her childhood days. Nay, 
she had even witnessed in the home circle deeds of violence caused by 
intemperance and had seen her own father, a prey to the fumes of 
intoxication, forget himself completely for if there was one thing 
of all things that Gerty knew it was that the man who lifts his hand 
to a woman save in the way of kindness deserves to be branded as 
the lowest of the low. 

And still the voices sang in supplication to the virgin most pow- 
erful, virgin most merciful. And Gerty, wrapt in thought, scarce saw 
or heard her companions or the twins at their boyish gambols or the 
gentleman off Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey called the man 
that was so like himself passing along the strand taking a short walk. 
You ne\er saw him anyway screwed but still and for all that she 
would not like him for father because he was too old or something or 
on account of his face (it was a palpable case of doctor Fell) or his 
carbuncly nose with the pimples on it. Poor father! With all his 
faults she loved him still when he sang Tell me, Mary, how to woo 
thee and they had stewed cockles and lettuce with salad dressing for 
supper and when he sang The moon hath raised with Mr. Dignam 
that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, from a 
stroke. Her mother's birthday that was and Charley was home 
on his holidays and Tom and Mr, Dignam and Mrs. 
and Patsy and Freddy Dignam and they were to have had a group 
taken. No one would have thought the end was so near. Now he 
was laid to rest. And her mother said to him to let that be a warn- 
ing to him for the rest of his days and he couldn't even go to the 
funeral on account of the gout, and she had to go Into town to 
bring him the letters and samples from his office about Catesby's cork 
line, artistic designs, fit for a palace, gives tiptop wear and always 
bright and cheery in the home. 

A sterling good daughter was Gerty just like a second mother in 
the house, a ministering angel too. And Avhen her mother had those 
splitting headaches who was it rubbed on the menthol cone on her 
forehead but Gerty though she didn't like her mother taking pinches 
of snuff and that was the only single thing they ever had words ^bout, 

T he Little Review 63 

taking snuff. It was Gerty who turned off the gas at the main every 
night and it was Gerty who tacked up on the wall of that place 
Mr. Tunney the grocer's christmas almanac the picture of halcyon 
days where a young gentleman in the costume they used to wear then 
with a threecornered hat was offering a bunch of flowers to his lady- 
love with oldtime chivalry through her lattice window. The colours 
were done something lovely. She was in a soft clinging white and the 
gentleman was in chocolate and he looked a thorough aristocrat. She 
often looked at them dreamily when she went there for a certain 
purpose and thought about those times because she had found out in 
Walker's pronouncing dictionary about the halcyon days what they 


The twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly 
fashion, till at last Master Jacky who was really as bold as brass 
there was no getting behind that deliberately kicked the ball as hard 
as ever he could down towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say 
poor Tommy was not slow to voice his dismay but luckily the gen- 
tleman in black who was sitting there by himself came to the rescue 
and intercepted the ball. Our two champions claimed their play- 
thing with lusty cries and to avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey called to 
the gentleman to throw it to her please. The gentleman aimed the 
ball once or twice and then threw it up the strand towards Cissy 
Caft'rey but it rolled down the slope and stopped right under Gerty's 
skirt near the little pool by the rock. The twins clamoured again 
for it and Cissy told her to kick it way and let them fight for it, so 
Gerty drew back her foot but she wished their stupid ball hadn't come 
rolling down to her and she gave a kick but she missed and Edy and 
Cissy laughed. 
— If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said. 

Gerty smiled assent. A delicate pink crept into her pretty cheek 
but she was determined to let them see so she just lifted her skirt 
a little but just enough and took good aim and gave the ball a jolly 
good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after it down 
towards the shingle. Pure jealousy of course it was nothing else 
to draw attention on account of the gentleman opposite looking. She 
felt the warm flush, a danger signal always with Gerty MagDowell 

64 The Little R 

e V I e w 

surging and flaming into her cheeks. Till then they had only ex- 
changed glances of the most casual but now under the brim of her 
new hat she ventured a look at him and the face that met her gaze 
there in the twilight, wan and strangely drawn, seemed to her the 
saddest she had ever seen. 

Through the open window of the church the fragrant incense was 
wafted and with it the fragrant names of her who was conceived 
without stain of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable 
vessel, pray for us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical 
rose. And careworn hearts were there and toilers for their daily 
bread and many who had erred and wandered, their eyes wet with 
contrition but for all that bright with hope for the reverend father 
Hughes had told them what the great saint Bernard said in his 
famous prayer of Mary, the most pious virgin's intercessory power 
that it was not recorded in any age that those who implored her pow- 
erful protection were ever abandoned by her. 

The twins were now playing again right merrily for the troubles 
of childhood are but as passing summer showers. Cissy played with 
baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air. 
Peep she cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked where 
was Cissy gone and then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah ! and, 
my word, didn't the little chap enjoy that! And then she told him 
to say papa. 
— Say papa, baby, say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa. 

And baby did his level best to say it for he was very intelligent 
for eleven months everyone said and he would certainly turn out to be 
something great they said. 
— Haja ja ja haja. 

Gerty wiped his little mouth with the dribbling bib and wanted 
him to sit up properly and say pa pa pa but when she undid the 
strap she cried out, holy saint Denis, that he was possing wet and 
to double the half blanket the other way under him. Of course 
his infant majesty was most obstreperous at such toilet formalities 
and he let everyone know it: 
— Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa. 

It was all no use soothering him with Ro, nono, baby and telling 

TheLittleReview 65 

him all about the geegee and where was the puffpuff but Ciss, always 
readywitted, gave him in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle and 
the young heathen was quickly appeased. 

Gerty wished to goodness they would take their squalling baby 
home out of that, no hour to be out, and the little brats of twins. She 
gazed out towards the distant sea. It was like a picture the evening 
and the clouds coming out and the Bailey light on Howth and to hear 
the music like that and the perfume of those incense they burned in 
the church. And while she gazed her heart went pitapat. Yes, it 
was her he was looking at and there was meaning in his look. His 
eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and 
through, read her very soul. Wonderful eyes they were, superbly 
expressive, but could you trust them? She could see at once by his 
dark ej^es that he was a foreigner but she could not see whether he 
had an aquiline nose from where he was sitting. He was in deep 
mourning, she could see that, and the story of a haunting sorrow 
was written on his face. She would have given worlds to know what 
it was. He was looking up so intensely, so still and he saw her kick 
the ball and perhaps he could see the bright steel buckles of her shoes 
if she swung them like that thoughtfully. She was glad that some- 
thing told her to put on the transparent stockings thinking Reggy 
Wylie might be out but that was far away. Here was that of which 
she had so often dreamed. The heart of the girl-woman went out to 
him. If he had suffered, more sinned against than sinning, or even, 
even, if he had been himself a sinner, a wicked man, she cared not. 
There were wounds that wanted healing and she just yearned to 
know all, to forgive all if she could make him fall in love with her, 
make him forget the memory of the past. Then mayhap he would 
embrace her gently, crushing her soft body to him and love her for 
herself alone. 

Refuge of sinners. Comfortess of the afflicted. Ora pro nobis. 
Well has it been said that whosoever prays to her with faith and con- 
stancy can never be lost or cast away : and fitly is she too a haven of 
refuge for the afflicted because of the seven dolours which transpierced 
her own heart. Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church, 
the stained glass windows lighted up, the candles, the flowers and the 

66 The Little Review 

blue banner of the blessed virgin's sodality and Father Conroy was 
helping Canon O'Hanlon at the altar, carrying things in and out 
with his eyes cast down. He looked almost a saint and his confession- 
box was so quiet and clean and dark and his hands were just like 
white wax. He told her that time when she told him about that in 
confession crimsoning up to the roots of her hair for fear he could 
see, not to be troubled because that was only the voice of nature and 
we were all subject to nature's laws, he said in this life and that 
that was no sin because that came from the nature of woman insti- 
tuted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady herself said to the 
archangel Gabriel be it done unto me accordmg to Thy Word. He 
was so kind and holy and often and otten she thought could she 
work an embroidered teacosy for him as a present or a clock but they 
had a clock she noticed on the mantelpiece white and gold with a 
caiuiry that came out of a little house to tell the time the day she 
v\'cnt there about the flowers for the forty hours' adoration because 
it was hard to know what sort of a present to give or perhaps an 
album of illuminated views of Dublin or some place. 

The little brats of twins began to quarrel again and Jacky threw 
t'le ball out towards the sea and they both ran after it. Little monkeys 
common as ditchwater. Someone ought to take them and give them 
a good hiding for themselves to keq") them m their places the both 
of them. And Cissy and Edy shouted after tliem to come back 
because they were afraid the tide might come in on them and be 
— Jacky ! Tcmmy ! 

Not they! What a gre it notion tliey had! So Ciss\ said it was 
the very last time she'd e-ver bring them out. She jumped up and 
called and then she ran down the slope past him, tossing her hair 
behind her which had a good enough colour if there had been more 
of it but with all the thingamerry she was always rubbing in to it 
she couldn't get it to grow long because it wasn't natural so she 
could just go and throw her hat at it. She ran with \on% gandery 
strides it was a wonder she didn't rip up her skirt at the side that 
was too tight on her because there was a lot of the tomboy about 
Cissy Cafitrey whenever she thought she had a good opportunity to 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 67 

show off and just because she was a good runner she ran like that 
so that he could see all the end of her petticoat running, and her 
skinm' shanks up as far as possible. It would have served her just 
right if she had tripped up over something with her high French 
heels on her to make her look tall and got a fine tumble. That would 
have been a very charming expose for a gentleman like that to 

Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all 
saints, they prayed, queen of the most holy rosary and then Father 
Conroy handed the thurible to Canon O'Hanlon and he put in the 
incense and censed the blessed sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught 
the two twins and she w^as itching to give them a good clip on the 
ear but she didn't because she thought he might be watching but she 
never made a bigger mistake in her life because Gerty could see with- 
out looking that he never took his eyes off of her and then Canon 
O'Hanlon handed the thurible back to Father Conroy and knelt 
down looking up at the blessed sacrament and the choir began to 
sing Tantiim ergo and she just swung her foot in and out in time to 
the Tantumer gosa cramen turn. Three and eleven she paid for those 
stockings in Sparrow's of George's street on the Tuesday, no the 
Monday before easter and there wasn't a brack on them and that was 
what he was looking at, transparent, and not at hers that had neither 
shape nor form because he had eyes in his head to see the difference 
for himself. 

Cissy came up along the strand with the two twins and their ball 
with her hat anyhow on her on one side after her run and she did 
look like a streel tugging the two kids along with the blouse she 
bought only a fortnight before like a rag on her back. Gerty just 
took off her hat for a moment to settle her hair and a prettier, a 
daintier head of nutbrown tresses was never seen on a girl's shoulder 
— a radiant little vision, in sooth, almost maddening in its sweetness. 
You would have to travel many a long mile before j'ou found a head 
of hair the like of that. She could almost see the swift answering 
flush of admiration in his eyes that set her tingling in every nerve. 
She put on her hat so that she could see from underneath the brim 
3nd swung her buckled shoe faster for her breath caught as she 

68 The Little Revie 


caught the expression in his eyes. He was eyeing her as a snake eyes 
its prey. Her woman's instinct told her that she had raised the devil 
in him and at the thought a burning scarlet swept from throat to 
brow till the lovely colour of her face became a glorious rose, 

Edy Boardman was noticing it too because she was squinting at 
Gerty, half smiling with her specs, like an old maid, pretending to 
nurse the baby. Irritable little gnat she was and always would be 
and that was why no one could get on with her, poking her nose 
into what ^as no concern of hers. And she said to Gerty : 
— A penny for your thoughts. 
— What, laughed Gerty. I was only wondering was it late. 

Because she wished to goodness they'd take the snotty-nosed twins 
and their baby home to the mischief out of that so that was why she 
just gave a gentle hint about its being late. And when Cissy came 
up Edy asked her the time and Miss Cissy, as glib as you like, said it 
was half past kissing time, time to kiss again. But Edy wanted 
to know because they were told to be in early. 

— Wait, said Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the 
time by his conundrum. 

So over she went and when he saw her coming she could see him 
take his hand out of his pocket, getting nervous and beginning to play 
with his watchchain, looking at the church. Passionate nature though 
he was Gerty could see that he had enormous control over himself. 
One moment he had been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made 
him gaze and the next moment it was the quiet gravefaced gentlman, 
scifcontrol expressed in every line of his distinguished-looking figure. 

Cissy said to excuse her would he mind telling her what was the 
right t'me and Gerty could see him taking out his watch listening to 
\t j.nd looking up <';nd he said he was very sorry his watch was 
stopped but he thought it must be after eight because the sun was 
set. His voice had a cultured ring in it and there was a suspicion 
of a quiver in the mellow tones. Cissy said thanks and came back 
with her tongue out and said his waterworks were out of order. 

Tlien they sang the second verse of the Tantum ergo and Canon 
O'Hanlon got up again and censed the blessed sacrament and knelt 
down and he told Father Conroy that one of the candles was just 

T h e Li t tl e Review 69 

going to set fire to the flowers and Father Conroy got up and settled 
it all right and she could see the gentleman winding his watch and 
listening to the works and she swung her leg more in and out in 
time. It was getting darker but he could see and he was looking all 
the time that he was winding the watch or whatever he was doing to 
it and then he put it back and put his hands back into his pockets. 
She felt a kind of a sensation rushing all over her and she knew by 
the feel of her scalp and that irritation against her stays that that 
thing must be coming on because the last time too was when she 
clipped her hair on account of the moon. His dark eyes fixed them- 
selves on her again, drinking in her every contour, literally wor- 
shipping at her shrine. If ever there was undisguised admiration in 
a man's passionate gaze it was there plain to be seen on that man's 
face. It is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, and you know it. 

Edy began to get ready to go and she noticed that that little hint 
she gave had the desired effect because it was a long way along the 
strand to where there was the place to push up the pushcar and 
Cissy took off the twins' caps and tidied their hair to make herself 
attractive of course and Canon O'Hanlon stood up with his cope 
poking up at his neck and Father Conroy handed him the card to 
read off and he read out Panem de coelo praestitisti eis and Edy and 
Cissy were talking about the time all the time and asking her but 
Gerty could pay them back in their own coin and she just answered 
with scathing politeness when Edy asked her was she heartbroken 
about her best boy throwing her over. Gerty winced sharply. A 
brief cold blaze shot from her eyes that spoke of scorn immeasurable. 
It hurt — O yes, it cut deep because Edy had her own quiet way of 
saying things like that she knew would wound like the confounded 
little cat she was. Gerty 's lips parted swiftly but she fought back the 
sob that rose to her throat, so slim, so flawless, so beautifully moulded 
it seemed one an artist might have dreamed of. She had loved him 
better than he knew. Lighthearted deceived and fickle like all his 
sex he would never understand what he had meant to her and for an 
instant there was in the blue eyes a quick stinging of tears. Their 
eyes were probing her mercilessly but with a brave effort she sparkled 

70 T h e L it tl e R e V i e w 

back in sympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for them to see. 
— O, she laughed and the proud head flashed up. I can throw my 
cap at who I like because it's leap year. 

Her words rang out crystal clear, more musical than the cooing of 
the ringdove but they cut the silence icily. There was that in her 
young voice that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with. 
Miss Edy's countenance fell to no slight extent and Gerty could see 
by her looking as black as thunder that she was simply in a towering 
rage because that shaft had struck home and they both knew that 
she was something aloof, apart in another sphere, that she was not 
of them and never would be and there was somebody else too that 
knew it and saw it so they could put that in their pipe and smoke it. 

Edy straightened up baby Boardman to get ready to go and Cissy 
tucked in the ball and the spades and buckets and it was high time 
too because the sandman was on his way for Master Boardman 
junior and Cissy told him too that Billy Winks was coming and that 
baby was to go deedaw and baby looked just too ducky, laughing up 
out of his gleeful eyes, and Cissy poked him like that out of fun in 
hihs wee fat tummy and baby, without as much as by your leave, 
sent up his compliments to all and sundry on to his brand new 
dribbling bib. 
— O my! Puddney pie! protested Ciss. 

The slight contretemps claimed her attention but in two twos she 
set that little matter to rights. 

Gerty stifled a smothered exclamation and Edy asked what and 
she was just going to tell her to catch it while it was flying but she 
ever ladylike in her deportment so she simply passed it off by saying 
that that was the benediction because just then the bell rang out from 
the steeple over the quiet seashore because Canon O'Hanlon was up 
on the altar with the veil that Father Conroy put round him round 
his shoulders giving the benediction with the blessed sacrament in his 

How moving the scene there in the gathering twilight, the last 
glimpse of Erin, the touching chime of those evening bells and at the 
same time a bat flew forth from the ivied belfry through the dusk, 
hither, thither, with a tiny lost cry. And she could see far away the 

TheLittletteview 71 

lights of the lighthouses and soon the lamplighter would be going his 
rounds lighting the lamp near her window where Reggy Wylie used 
to turn the bicycle like she read in that book The Lamplighter by 
Miss Cummins, author of Mabel Vaughan and other tales. For 
Gerty had her dreams that no one knew of. She loved to read 
poetry and she got a keepsake from Bcrha Supple of that lovely con- 
fession album with the coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she 
laid it in the drawer of toilet-table which though it did not err on 
the side of luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean. It was there 
she kept her girlish treasure trove the tortoiseshell combs, her child 
of Mary badge, the whiterose scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster 
pouncetbox and the ribbons to change when her things came home 
from the wash and there were some beautiful thoughts written in it 
in violet ink that she bought in Wisdom Hesly's for she felt that she 
too could write poetry if she could only express herself like that 
poem she had copied out of the newspaper she found one evening 
round the potherbs Art thou real, my ideal? it was called by Louis 
J. Walshe, Magherafelt, and after there was something about 
twilight, wilt thou ever? and often the beauty of poetry, so sad in its 
transient loveliness had misted her eyes with silent tears that the years 
were slipping by for her, one by one, and but for that one shortcoming 
she knew she need fear no competition and that was an accident 
coming down the hill and she always tried to conceal it. But it must 
end she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there would be 
no holding back for her. Love laughs at locksmiths. She would 
make the great sacrifice. Dearer than the whole world would she 
be to him and gild his days with happiness. There was the all impor- 
tant question and she was dying to know was he a married man or a 
widower who had lost his wife or some tragedy like the nobleman 
with the foreign name from the land of song had to have her put 
into a madhouse, cruel only to be kind. But even if — what then? 
Would it make a very great difference? From everything in the 
least indelicate her finebred nature instinctively recoiled. She loathed 
that sort of person, the fallen woman off the accommodation walk 
beside the Dodder that went with the soldiers and coarse men, de- 
grading the sex and being taken up to the police station. No, no: 

72 T h e Little Re vie w 

not that. They would be just good friends in spite of the conventions 
of society with a big ess. Perhaps it was an old flame he was in 
mourning for from the days beyond recall. She thought she under- 
stood. She would try to understand him because men were so 
different. The old love was waiting, waiting with little white hands 
stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. She would follow the dic- 
tates of her heart for love was the master guide. Nothing else mat- 
tered. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free. 

{To be continued) 

The Reader Critic 


Dear Little Revieivers: 

Can you tell me when James Joyce's "Ulysses" will appear in book 
form? Do you think the public will ever be ready for such a book? I 
read him each month with eagerness, but I must confess that I am defeated 
in my intelligence. Now tell the truth, — do you yourselves know where 
the story is at the present moment, how much time has elapsed, — just 
where are we? Have you any clue as to when the story will end? 

["Ulysses" will probably appear in book form in America if there is a 
publisher for it who will have sense enough to avoid the public. Joyce has 
perfected a technique that has enabled him to avoid almost all but those 
rabid for literature. We haven't any advance chapters in hand, but it 
would seem that we are drawing towards the Circe episode and the close 
of the story. The question of time seems simple and unobscured. The 
story is laid in perhaps the talk centre of the universe, but time is not 
affected ; the time of the present chapter is about five thirty or six in the 
evening of the same day on which the story started, — I think Tuesday. 
Mr. Bloom has had a long day since he cooked his breakfast of kidney, 
but he has lost no time. — jhJ] 


To Djuna Barnes: 

I was much pleased to receive the Little Revieiv. And I immediately read 
your picture of degeneracy, entitled "Oscar." I am happy to note that it in 
no wise reminds me of that other Oscar (Wilde) who was worth while — 
very much worth while — in spite of his errors. 

The Little Review 73 

I have read it through a second time and now feel sure that I read it 
the first time. If I should read it a third time — I think I should read it a 
fourth and even a fifth time. So 1 will not. I am satisfied already, and 
desire to sleep to-night, without keeping company with all those Barn-shadows 
with which you so forcefully enshroud your picture. 

Of course it is a picture — not a study — of some of that morbidity which 
is so prevalent during these days of the Overwrought, or Kublkul In- 
sanity of the world. But it will do no real lasting good, and will not 
help you to Arrive in that Field of Real Endeavor, to which you should 
aspire — and pefhaps will some day, finally, enter. 

Your longing to be "original," strange, compelling, is only too crudely 
evident in your prose work; and by the same token, that is why you may 
never hope to Achieve the Worth While, so long as you allow yourself 
to be thus held down by, what I may term, your lower self. There is a 
big better self — the real Djuna — asleep now, but to awaken, sometime. 

This is evidenced by the real power in the things you write, in the remark- 
able atmosphere of your work, in the fine power of imagination which I 
find here and there in the things I have read, of yours, in this same "Oscar," 
and in the few poems I have come across in some of the magazines. Your 
poetry is much the best thing you do — better artistry, as a rule. Your 
prose is crude, unpolished, erratic. You should stop trying for effects for 
mere effects' sake, and allow the effect to come naturally, as it surely will, 
when you forget Djuna, and become the writer you may become, if you will 
only see the necessity for the suppression of mere vulgar eccentricity — in 
the desire to surprise — so that you may write of things as they, balanced, 

Why do you not ivake up to the tivist of the little Bohemia you are in, 
and drop that warp — taking up the thread of the things in life that count 
and ivhich must be lielped along? Then, you might become of some real 
worth in life's long, hard battle — and help, where you now simply waste 
your time and your gift. 

[There is something batrachian in the above comment and advice. I can 
see men all over America like William Jennings Bryan and Elbert Hubbard 
exuding wisdom which they draw from the morass in which they sit rather 
than from a brain, — men who have themselves so longer to be "original," 
"strange," "compelling," that even in the end they seek fame by exhibiting 
their discardings. — ;//.] 

The Modest Woman 

Helen Bishop Dennis, Boston: 

I notice that the first letter under the Reader Critic in your April issue 
suggests that "after all these months James Joyce might be accepted, ob- 
scenity and all, for .... only a few read him, and those few not just 
the kind to have their whole moral natures overthrown by frankness about 
natural functions." 

The mistake you people make is in thinking that we "prudes" who 
don't like Joyce are concerned with morals. Morality has nothing to do 
with it. Does morality have anything to do with the average person's 
desire for privacy concerning the "natural functions" ? Not at all ; it 

74 T he Little Review 

is delicacy, lack of vulgarity. I do not think we need to apologize for 
this delicacy and lack of vulgarity, even to your superior beings. 

There is a certain form of mental unbalance — about the lowest form — 
that takes delight in concentration on the "natural functions.. . All at- 
tendants in insane asylums are familiar with it. Does James Joyce belong 
to those so affected? Do "the few who read him" belong? If not, and 
Joyce and his readers are to be considered fairly sane, would he — and 
they — be willing to perform their "natural functions" in public? If not, 
why take out a desire for dabbling in filth, in writing in public? 

The only cure for the nausea he causes is the thought that "only a few 
read him." I think the Little Revieiv has become a disgustingly artificial 
and affected publication. You started out to be sincere, unconventional, to 
refuse to pander to commercialism, etc.: a wonderfully courageous and 
admirable ambition. But you are a great disappointment to those of us 
who hoped great things for you. 'You are like a crowd of precocious, 
■'smarty cat," over-wise children, showing off. I know of no one who 
has anything for you now but pity, mingled with contempt and disap- 
pointment — and this from people who were once your friends and admirers. 

[Yes, I think you must be right. I once knew a woman so modest that 
she didn't wear underwear: she couldn't stand its being seen in the wash.] 

Unpayable Debts'' 

C. R. S., Columbus, Ohio: 

I enclose a check for your Fund. . . . 

This is an opportunity to discharge in a small way a debt that would be 
difficult if not impossible totally to discharge. In the Little Revieiv I learned 
that I was a human through learning that others had the same thoughts and 
feelings that had many years been mine, but which through a false philosophy 
or teaching were regarded as deserving of repression until the light of the 
Little Rei'ieiv showed them worthy of expression. 

It is terrible too that, in a world of so great abundance to supply the needs 
and wants of all, there must needs be so much struggle and effort and waste 
to accomplish the results one aims at, even in a very limited way. 

Commendable indeed are the efforts that you and your co-workers have 
made in the face of so many discouraging handicaps, and that you may be 
able to go on and realize to the full the object of your efforts is my earnest 

G. B. M., Brooklyn: 

I add this comment on your May number. It is not surprising that "in 
a city of millionaires, .... the Arts go begging and penniless." When 
all the economic pros and cons are in, when all the items on the long list of 
the indictment against capitalism are checked off, the last overshadowing 
terrifically damning charge against our present industrialism can be brought 
in: — capitalism has vulgarized the world more completely than it has ever 
been before. With an accent of unashamed bitterness, I ask the Little 
Revieiv: What can you expect in the way of interest and financial support 
from a shifting leisure class composed of those inferiors whom capitalism 
forces to the top ? 


/^ EJECT — -To establish world peace by peaceful methods 
^^ regardless of race, creed or boundary lines. To oppose all 
wars, combat militarism, and speed world disarmament. 

To oppose all profiteering at human expense whether on 
the field of industry or that of battle. To study, reveal and 
publish the cost of violence to humanity realizing that reason 
and good will must triumph to secure a perfect and happy 


(List Incomplete) 

Abbey Scott Baker, B. M. Langdon Davies— England, 

Madeleine Z. Doty, W. E. B. DuBois, Monica 

Ewer— England, W. E. Ewer— England, Mrs. Alfred Hayes, 

Miss Jessie Hughan, Joseph Jablonower, Mrs. Marietta 

Johnson, Charles Lanier, Henry R. Linville, Mary MacArthur 

—England, Marjorie Manas— England, 

Rev. Geo. F. Miller, Mrs. Daniel O'Day, Robert 

A. Parker, Kate O. Petersen, Mr. and Mrs. Royal 

— France, Rev. Norman Thomas 

I endorse this program and will allow the use of my name 
with the understanding that it entails no further obligations. 



Address all commufiications: 

MRS. J. SERGEANT CRAM, P. O. Box No. 4, Station Y, 

New York City, N. Y. 

76 The Little Review 

Are there lyOOO people in America 

It is not realized that the "Little Review" alone 
in Aynerica is performing a function performed by 
at least a dozen reviews in France and by eight or 
ten in England. 


N a city of millionaires, nearly all of whom make some strong 
pretense of being interested in the Arts, we have been pub- 
lishing for three years the only magazine that has a legitimate 
and sympathetic connection with the artist. 

Any professional or business man, any statesman of intelligence, 
will admit that in the last analysis it is the Arts, and the Arts alone, 
that give lustre to a nation. And yet in this country, most glar- 
ingly lacking in lustre, the Arts go begging and penniless. 

Oppressed at every turn by a new financial difficulty, we have 
been able in spite of this to establish some intellectual communication 
between England, France and America by presenting the best of the 
creative work produced in those countries today. 

The amount of money we need, our other 

assets being so strong, is $5,000. If we 

can obtain this sum for one year we 

can push through an advertising 

campaign that will carry us along, 

making it possible to meet the 

criminally increased cost of 

publication and to pay our 

contributors somewhat. 

The Little Review 77 

w/)o will give $5, apiece to our fund? 


before in A 

m eric a 







of the creative imp 






materialistic vision so 

eclipsed the desire for 



even the 


of it. 


VERY artist realizes that as long as we exist there is one 
magazine in America in which he may present himself 
to his audience directly, uncensored, and unhindered by 
a "policy." The Little Review is the one Freie Biihne 
in the country. 

It is also the one Art project that has shown by its vicissitudes, 
its incorruptibility and its endurance, the essential need for such a 

But the situation today is almost insurmountable. The present 
format of the magazine costs us just four times as much as formerly. 
We must meet this deficit, and we must pay our contributors. 

Make checks payable to the Little Review 
Fund, 27 ff'est Eighth Street. If you can 
not send $S send any thing you can. 
The smallest donation will be ap- 

Help us to attain the $5,000 
mark in a month or two. 
The results will interest 

Three Books by 

Robert De Camp 

of interest to the literati 

Roses and Rebellion 

Boards yjc 

Purple Youth Boards $T 
Syncopation Cloth $2 

Poet and satirist, Leland, of modern 
writers, best carries forward the tra- 
dition of Heine. In these three 
volumes you will find satire that is 
authentic; art rather than vaudeville. 
Innocent huftbonery undoubtedly has 
its place; the unenlightened must be 
entertained. But in these books by 
Leland the discerning will not be 

TuhUshed at Boston by 
The Poetry-Drama Company 

Si jrl 

I Owing to the de- I 

I I 

I plorable state of I 

1 1 

1 1 1 r 

I the paper market p 

I we are forced to I 

P i 

i make this a dou- a 

fil Die number I 

is^n^i^^sgmsss^gr m^ asas 







OF THE LITTLE REVIEW, published monthly at New York, iV. V., for 

April 1, 1920. 

State of New York, County of New York, ss. 

Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State and county aforesaid, personal!}' 
appeared Margaret C. Andtrson. who. having been duly sworn according to law, 
deposes and says that she is the Publisher, Editor, Owner, Business Manager 
of THE LITTLE REVIEW, and that the following is, to the best of her knowledge 
and belief, a true statement of the ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the 
circulation), etc., of the aforesaid publication for the date shown in the above cap- 
tion, required by the Act of August 2-1, 1912, embodied in section 443, Postal Laws 
and Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form ; to wit : 

1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing edllor. and 
bu.siness managers are : 

Publisher, Margaret C. Anderson, 27 W. Eighth St., New "S'ork ; Elito--. Margaret 
C. .Anderson, 27 W. Eighth St., New York; Managing Editor. Mnrgarer C. An,lers"i, 
?7 W. Eighth St., New York ; Business Manager. Margaret C. Anderson. 27 W. 
Eighth St., New York. 

2. That the owner is, Margaret C. Anderson. 

.1. l"bat the known bondholders, mortgagees, and othe- ■■'■curity lio'ders owu'ng 
or holding 1 per cent, or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securi- 
lic;^ Hre ; None. 

4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of owners, stockholders, 
a.nd. security holders, if any, contain not only the list of is'iockholders and security 
holders as they ajipear upon the books of the comjjany but also, in cases where 
tlip stockholder or security bolder ajipear upon the books of the comn.iny as 
trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for 
whom such trustee is acting, is given ; also that the said two paragraphs contain 
s'atements embracing affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and 
conditions under which stockholders and security holdt>-s who do not aiipear tipi^n the 
books of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than 
that of a bona fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that anv other 
person, association, or corporation, has any interest direct or indirect in the said stock, 
bonds, or other securities than as so stated by her. 

Sworn to and subscribed before me this 25th day of March, 1920. 

M. RABINOWITZ, Notary Public. 

(My commission expires March 30, 1921) 


^arij garden (9hoeolatesr 

'Q/our (Phoeolates^aw really the ffne^ThaVe 
€\)er tasted aniJujherG in the "World ^^ 









'kl J;".*; 




mtkmme no conmhmnisi wmi fm mibuc fAsra 


A u gu s t I g 2 

The Art of Poetry Richard Aldington 166 

is a definitive statement of the principles and practice 
of a new art. It is neither a manifesto nor an explana- 
tion. It is a statement and a definition of terms which 
will prove as interesting and as significant as the first 
Imagiste anthology several years ago. 

Six Poems William Carlos Williams 162 

Illuminations Arthur Rimbaud x 181 

Poems and Poems in Prose 
Une Maison Emanuel Fay 

Four Literary Studies Stuart Davis ■ 

Drawings in pencil and pen and ink 
The Ci-devant Michael Arlen 125 

The author's first book was a little hastily credited 
to George Moore. 
(All of the above in the section devoted to Modern Forms) 

"Thus to Revisit ..." Ford Madox Hueffer 132 

More delightful reminiscences 
Thieves James Stephens 142 

Shakespeare Romain Rolland 109 

And twelve other titles — in art, criticism, and verse. 

As always, a full magazine. 

THE DIAL, 152 West 13th Street, N. Y. City. :■ 

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Photograph of James Joyce 

Magic Mary Butts 


Fluctuation Anthony Wrynn 


Mother Djuna Barnes 

Drawing Stuart Davis 

Chanson on Petit Hypertrophiquc John Rodker 

Four Chronological Poems Malcolm Cowley 

Black Umbrellas Ben Hecht 

In the Country Robert Reiss 

Poems Else von Freytag-Loringhoven 

Study Charles Ellis 

Discussion : 

"The Public Taste" 


May Sinclair in the "English Review" 

"The Modest Woman" 
Arrested Movement Jerome Blum 

Ulysses (Episode XIII concluded) James Joyce 

A New Testament (XI and XII) Sherwood Anderson 

The Reader Critic 

Subscription price, payable in advance, in fhe I'nited States and Terriiories. $2.50 
per year; Single copy, 25c; Canada. $2.75; Foreign, $3.U0. Published monthly and 
copyrighted, 1920, by Margaret C. Anderson. 

Manuscripts must be submitted at author's risk, wi'ch return postage. 

Entered as second class matter March 16, 1917, at the Post Office at New York, 
N. Y., under the act of March 3, 1879. 


^7 West Eighth Street, New York, N. Y. 
fqreiijn Ofiice; 43 Belsize Park Gardens, London, JV. W, j^ 




by Mary Butts 

ON the wall behind him and above his right ear a nail-head 
was sunk in the plaster. When she had sat down and 
tranquillised her perceptions she balanced her eyes on it 
to keep the tilt of her head. The north light swam in, 
upon her cheeks, exposing the shiny down of the lip, the 
hollow pores on each side of the nose. In front she saw his shoulders 
cutting the light square, and his bent head black against the light like 
an auk's egg tilted on the top of a rock. 

For ten minutes she listened to his pencil inscribing its version of 
her image. Ronsard m'a celebre aux temps que j'etais belle. It had 
been a sufficient sentence. She would be what she was for another ten 
years, and more than that when she died. In the moment's compla- 
cency her eyelids fell, and the corners of her mouth crept up. 

Painters are not concerned with youth or age. They are not finally 
interested in your phenomena extended in time and space. They use 
it to present appearance in reality. Reality swallows phenomena and 
puffs them out in patterns discerned in the arrangement of antitheses. 
A good painter is free of the pain of opposites. He leads out the 
arrangement in reality by hand or claw. He was examining her 

A "rapture of the intellect" stirred her. Her eyes, shifted from 
the nail-head, had drawn her chin along under then). She fixed them 

The Little Review 

Time ran on. The plaster round the nail-head blazed and swam. 
She clung to the dark point. It put out rays. The shelf above it 
slid, and the books became an arbitrary prism. She stepped out of 
her body. Immediately in place of his leaning shoulders, a black rock 
appeared, a granite bubble, and over it trembled the black star. She 
crossed the threshold of the senses, knowing that with the least ad- 
justment the star and the black mountain would slide again into their 
terrestrial positions. In the senses or out they were there together, 
two creatures, at perception, their relation sustained by her eyes fixed 
till they swarted on a black star. Why should it be black? Because 
of a formula the hair rose shivering along her back. 

A mountain has roots. 

"That will dof" 

The phrase followed her about the town. She had said first "Into 
the darkness at the roots of the mountains," curtseying about the 
beats. Then she considered its meaning and trimmed it into a respect- 
able statement, training her ear out of its predecessor until each time 
she said "mountain" and "roots" it was like a harpoon launched from 
a masthead into a whale at the bottom of the sea. 

The next day she walked along the cliffs to his house, shaping her 
image. She had remembered that when he looked into her it was 
with no ambiguity of perception. She must hurry where the pace 
could not be forced. Her eyes picked up the niil-head and held 

on This time she became a bird, wings out, flat against the 

rock, gauging its surface, its unimaginable volume, gripping a minute 
ridge with cold, clawed feet. Breast to breast with him. A feather 
breast was on wrinkled stone, and could not mix. Outside the 
senses she was repeating the external forms, hito the darkness at the 
roots of the mountains. Abominable sing-song. Jazz to it then. 
Follow him, cancel it out. A way of speaking that is good enough 
for the emotions is not good enough for the plainest writing. A 
great painter was at work on her. A mountain has roots. She became 
a bird again. The rock was heeling over onto her, it had put out 
arms. She would lie under it spatchcocked till she turned fossil. 
Let him go. Give it up. She passed out the contact with her wing- 
tip?,! ^n^i >Yh?ded off on a fan of whistling air, Th^r? wa? the niqun' 

The Little Re vie 

tain and under it deep water, stirring, fingering its side, running down, 
stooping and as silently lifted up. Under that sea the mountain 
had its roots. When she turned back the sea would it be resting on 
a cushion of conger eels? It seemed that it was ready to be exposed. 
A diving bird could not part it. The moon must be caught waxing 
and the extreme spring tides. In the night the water would be drawn 
back and in the morning she would see the thing it covered and agree 
for the water to cover it again. 

She left him, expectant to the point of tranquillity. The days 

The house where he worked was down sixteen stone steps, and at the 
end of a passage all of old stones oozing at the cracks. She walked 
down them and looked up before leaving the uncovered air and saw a 
flake of the moon left on the edge of the roof. She looked down and 
saw the roots of the house were the roots of the mountain uncovered by 
the moon. With the moon had risen storm, green sheets of water 
were poured in shaken out and flung back, uncovering what had 
been laid there from the foundation of the world. In a fury of 
wind the sea was ripped back and exposed a rock, long dark, of a 
precise smooth elegance, and a bird was swooping on it. The su.i 
rolled over it. The sea covered it again. 

^ "That's right, old mountain! You would have rolled me out if 
I had not had wings." 

He came out to meet her. She followed him in briskly, and settled 
herself for a journey with her eyes on the nail. Under the form of a 
rock she had seen him naked, a pure-shape among the basis of the 
hills. In bird-shape she had freed herself of his contact. She could 
now entertain it or as easily leave. She did not know the rock's 
significance, but at the end of this observation would come know- 
ledge, and out of knowledge power. He had explored her image. 
He had seen her before she had so much as arrived at their formula. 
If he reigned. She though late would reign also. 

I\Iais pour regner :l faut se taire. 

Behind their signatures was the source of signatures, the life which 
is all life and no death, where he and his drawing moved, were 
mixed, and poured out. 

The Little Review 

There appeared the figure of a triangle, the base given in the world. 
From one known she was to complete this figure of divine geometry. 
She had seen a black star. Quod superius, sicut inferive est, and this 
morning it had remained obstinately a nail. 

There is an abyss also. She must explore that and as readily as 
the starry sky. Et pour regner il faut se taire. Accepted also. 
Let it go. 


by Anthony JVrynn 

Ah Life that has no end. . . 
deep within the fortress of myself 
' growths- 
Wander — 
O wander my spirit 

and here 
through this forest of green brass. 

quiver my delicate bones, 
call out 

O quivering heart 
• in this forest \ ,. 

of endless motionlessness. 

\ Cool ' ' 

and verdant metal 
passes across my sides, 
and I am consecrated — 

Life without death. 


by Anthony Wrynn 

ALL morning the air was heavy with mist — early summer 
mist, warm and reposing. Yet around noon it became 
indoorlike and emasculating. Poised insanity of op- 
pression formed in me around that hour. Slowly has it 
been forming all through the morning. And the agony, 
passive as it was, became so great it was the abstract suffering of an 
historic Roland or Ulysses. 

Eyeless, in such sodden desolation, I passed into the park and sat 
with the many people that are there waiting — the detached, solitary 
waiting of Roland or Ulysses. 

The heat-laden mist began movement of great depth. It passed 
in, and out, and through the fainting green, in and out through the 
fainting people. It clushed close beneath their coats, and waists, and 
carried loveblood from each of us, to the other. — Slowly I became 
more free. Slowly movement began in me ; and in a moment of great 
tone I kissed close the sweating mouth of a girl, deep, within my 

For three days I have been alone, walking through tight Brooklyn. 
Up one street — down another. Today I wandered under the burnin ^ 
fog up Fifth Avenue, from Union Square to here, a place of shattering 

Two days passed — and I walked through the summer streets. 

Today I met Clement for the last time. Madl.mad I almost went 
with anaemic attempts of friendship. — It is nof a necessity — merely 
a thin, grey-water dissipation, for a deformed and uncreative mind. — 

I am becoming too interested. 

There is not (or, is there not) one man or one woman to wnom I 
can talk — to whom I can listen. The last, surely, being you. 

I carry about in my book a coloured post card, to be forwarded 
to some one. I keep that card ; I do pnt scad it, for since my isolation 

The Little Review 

is a great pressure on me I fancy, at times, it is a card to me, and 
1 like that, the contact is good. Good, not because it is j^ou, for I 
dislike you. 

Though it's your card that I carry around, so I thought I'd tell 
about it. 

Today has been wet-hot, making poise within me quake, as I en- 
counter beauty gone to seed. I met a boy I love greatly. He can not 
requite my love. Only trees and water can requite my love. 

I leave him, and pass on through the fuming streets, wet heat 
clenching at my heart and holding down my wrists. Long time I 
wandered, trying to keep repose of myself. Throes of sterile isola- 
tions sunk deep in my throat, and I paused. 

A delicate, cool air wafts across a high rock in the park — across 
my temples. Very few moments pass. I create many impressions 

Now I have a quiet peace for remaining day. 


by^ Anthony Wi^y n n 

TIGHTENING! of the air all about. 
Gradual ceasing 
in tension, 
to pulsation 
of muffled thuds. 

A white flicker across some one's lips. 
Four fingers come slowly into their own palm, 
and clench. 

The thud in a throat becomes heavier. 
The thud in a thousand throats becomes heavier. 
The thud in millions of throats becomes heavier. — 
and a nation is at war. 

The Little R e v i e 

Delicately twined muscles 
on legs and thighs of young men 
tighten, and give, 
tighten, and give. 

now nourishing the roots of trees 
in other countries 
execute strategies of war : 
send timid notes of hope 
to a dazed lover : 

in among disorder of papers and linen, 
for a secreted token : 
hurriedly into ardent hand of some one, 
then out, 

through a door — 
through a far away. 

All day the glistening sun has been finely poised, 

in its monomotion above the earth. 

Quiet green has rested on the mountains. 

Quiet warmth has been glowing along the ungiving pavements 

of the city streets. 

A calm early-summer has sunk into breasts of the people 

moving about the streets of the city, 
along the pathways in the mountains. 



powerful roots of the oaks, 

gentle roots of the wheat, 

lap into themselves, 

into their firm centers, 

the nourisment 

of mouldering hands 

long gone. 


by Djuna Barnes 

A FEEBLE light flickered in the pawn shop at twenty 
nine. Usually, in the back of this shop, reading by this 
light — a rickety lamp with a common green cover — sat 
Lydia Passova, the mistress. 

Her long heavy head was divided by straight bound 
hair. Her high firm bust was made still higher and still firmer by 
German corsets. She was excessively tall, due to extraordinarily long 
legs. Her eyes were small, and not well focused. The left was 
slightly distended from the long use of a magnifying glass. 

She was middle aged, and very slow in movement, though well 
balanced. She wore coral in her ears, a corkl necklace, and many 
coral finger rings. 

There was about her jewelry some of the tragedy of all articles that 
find themselves in pawn, and she moved among the trays like the 
guardians of cemetary grounds, who carry about with them some of 
the lugubrious stillness of the earth on which they have been standing. 

She dealt, in most part in cameos, garnets, and a great many in- 
laid bracelets and cuff-links. There were a few watches however, and 
silver vessels and fishing tackle and faded slippers — and when, at 
night, she lit the lamp, these and the trays of precious and semi- 
precious stones, and the little ivory crucifixes, one on either side of the 
window, seemed to be leading a swift furtive life of their own, con- 
scious of the slow pacing woman who was known to the street as 
Lydia Passova, but to no thing else. 

Not even to her lover — a little nervous fellow, an Englishman 
quick in speech with a marked accent, a round-faced youth with a 
deep soft cleft in his chin, on which grew two separate tufts of 
yellow hair. His eyes were wide and pale, and his eyeteeth prominent. 

He dressed in tweeds, walked with the toes in, seemed sorrowful 
when not talking, laughed a great deal and was nearly always to be 
found in the cafe about four of an afternoon. 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 11 

When he spoke it was quick and jerky. He had spent a great deal 
of his time in Europe, especially the watering places — and had man- 
aged to get himself in trouble in St. Moritz, it was said, with a well- 
connected family. 

He liked to seem a little eccentric and managed it simply enough 
while in America. He wore no hat, and liked to be found reading 
the London Times under a park lamp at three in the morning. 

Lydia Passova was never seen with him. She seldom left her 
shop, however she was always pleased when he wanted to go any- 
where: "Go" she would say, kissing, his hand, "And when you are 
tired come back." 

Sometimes she would make him cry. Turning around she would 
look at him a little surprise, with lowered lids, and a light tighten- 
ing of the mouth. 

"Yes" he would say "I know I'm trivial — well then here I go, 
I will leave you, not disturb you any longer!" and darting for the 
door he would somehow end by weeping with his head buried in her 

She would say "There, there — why are you so nervous?" 

And he would laugh again: "My father was a nervous man, and my 
mother was high-strung, and as for me," — he would not finish. 

Sometimes he would talk to her for long hours, she seldom answer- 
ing, occupied with her magnifying glass and her rings, but in t'.ie 
end she was sure to send him out with ; "That's all very true I have 
no doubt, now go out by yourself and think it over" — and he would 
go, with something like relief, embracing her large hips with his small 
strong arms. 

They had knoivn each other a very short time, three or four 
months. He had gone in to pawn his little gold ring, he was always 
in financial straits, though his mother sent him five pounds a week; 
and examining the ring Lydia Passova had been so quiet, inevitable, 
necessary that it seemed as if he must have known her forever — "at 
some time," as he said. 

Yet they had never grown together. They remained detached and, 
on her part, quiet, preoccupied. 

He never knew how much she liked him. She never told him, if he 

12 The Little Review 

asked she would look at him in that surprised manner, drawing her 
mouth together. 

In the beginning he had asked her a great many times, clinging to 
her, and she moved about arranging her trays with a slight smile, and 
m the end lowered her hand and stroked him gently. 

He immediately became excited. "Let us dance," he cried, "I 
have a great capacity for happiness." 

"Yes, you are very happy," she said. 

"You understand don't you?" he asked abruptly. 


"That my tears are nothing, have no significance, they are just a 
protective fluid— when I see anything happening that is about to effect 
my happiness I cry, that's all." 

"Yes," Lydia Passova said, "I understand." She turned around 
reaching up to some shelves, and over her shoulder she asked "Does 
it hurt?" 

"No, it only frightens me. You never cry, do you?" 

"No, I never cry." 

That was all. He never knew where she had come from, what her 
life had been, if she had or had not been married, if she had or had 
not known lovers, all that she would say was "Well, you arc with me, 
does that tell you nothing?" and he had to answer "No, it tells me 

When he was sitting in the cafe he often thought to himself 
"there's a great woman"— and he was a little puzzled why he thought 
this because his need of her was so entirely different from any need 
he seemed to remember having possessed before. 

There was no swagger in him about her, the swagger he had 
always felt for his conquests with women. Yet there was not a 
trace of shame— he was neither proud nor shy about Lydia Passova, 
he was something entirely different. He could not have said him- 
self what his feeling was — but it was in no way disturbing. 

People had, it is true, begun to tease him: 

"You're a devil with the ladies." 

Where this had made him proud, now it made him uneasy. 

"Now, there's a certain Lydia Passova for instance, who would 

The Little Review 13 

ever have thought — " 

Trembling, furious he would rise. 

"So, you do feel — " 

He would walk away, stumbling a little among the chairs, puttinj 
his hand on the back of every one on the way to the door. 

Yet he could see, that in her time, Lydia Passova had been a "per- 
verse" woman — there was about everything she did an economy that 
must once have been a very sensitive and a very sensuous impatience, 
and because of this everyone who saw her felt a personal loss. 

Some times tormented, he would come running to her, stopping 
abruptly, putting it to her this way : 

"Somebody has said something to me." 

"When— where?" 

"Now, in the cafe." 


"I don't know, a reproach — " 

She would say : 

"We are all, unfortunately, only what we are." 

She had a large and beautiful angora cat, it used to sit in the tray 
of amethj'sts and opals and stare at her from very bright cold eyes. 
One day it died, and calling her lover to her she said : 

"Take her out and bury her." And when he had buried her he 
came back, his lips twitching. 

"You loved that cat — this will be a great loss." 

"Have I a memory?" she inquired. 

"Yes," he answered. 

"Well," she said quietly, fixing her magnifying glass firmly in her 
eye. "We have looked at each other, that is enough." 

And then one day she died. 

The caretaker of the furnace came to him, where he was sipping his 
liqueur as he talked to his cousin, a pretty little blond girl, who had a 
boring and comfortably provincial life, and who was beginning to 

He got up, trembling, pale, and hurried out. 

The police were there, and said they thought it had been heart 

14 The Little Review 

She lay on the couch in the inner room. She was fully dressed, even 
to her coral ornaments; her shoes were neatly tied — large bows of a 
ribbed silk. 

He looked down. Her small eyes were slightly open, the left, that 
had used the magnifying glass, was slightly wider than the other. 
For a minute she seemed quite natural. She had the look of one who 
is about to say: "Sit beside me." 

Then he felt the change. It was in the peculiar heaviness of the 
head — sensed through despair and not touch. The high breasts 
looked very still, the hands were half closed, a little helpless, as in 
life — hands that were too proud to "hold." The drawn-up limb ex- 
posed a black petticoat and a yellow stocking. It seemed that she had 
become hard — set, as in a mould, — that she rejected everything now, 
but in rejecting had bruised him with a last terrible pressure. He 
moved and knelt down. He shivered. He put his closed hands to 
his eyes. He could not weep. 

She was an old woman, he could see that. The ceasing of that one 
thing that she could still have for anyone made it simple and direct. 

Something oppressed him, weighed him down, bent his shoulders, 
closed his throat. He felt as one feels who has become conscious of 
passion for the first time, in the presence of a relative. 

He flung himself on his face, like a child. 

That night, however, he wept, lying in bed, his knees drawn up. 


Chanson on Petit Hypertrophique 

by John Rodker 

J'entends ?non coeur qui bat 
C'est iianan qui inappelle. 

— Laforgue. 

LIMPID efflorescence of light gradually pervaded me. 
Nerve endings tingled and life buzzed continually like 
bees at a hive. Very remote, systole and diastole began 
quietly. Very remote and limpid, and drew nearer 
until it burnt and quivered in jabs of red and green 
and chocolate. 

The rhythmic beat grew systematic and while before I had feared 
lest it should again fade vaguely into its origins, now my fear dropped 
and I could freely eat of the continuous and singing buzz of life, 
rocking me endlessly through the electric blue-green night. 

And the buds of my joints developed each its separate entity, 
swarmed off from the parent so that I throbbed tiringly with my 
eccentric regions of systole and diastole. The life in each joint grew 
more potent. My existence was less individual. I was unable to 
seize knowledge of my identity. My origins, clear and obvious to me 
before, lost their sharpness. I could not think or be aware of myself. 
Too much stress of life confused and amazed me. What was my 
mother now? Willingly I would have laid hold on her entrails to 
tear, had she wanted to thwart me, but she was now no longer con- 
cerned to prevent me. Quietly and, to me, a little simply, she allowed 
herself to be the tool of my life. Then I would hug myself with joy 
in the hot close corner, as one assured of certain deliverance and who 
knows there is the world for him. 

Quiet and the green and red and chocolate gave place to orange 
and my head was streaked with fine nets of palpitating crimson and 
a nimbus of fire rose from it quivering endlessly. And like cotton- 
wool it remained ever between myself ?in4 th^ gtrain^d ^^nd despairing 
liejart of my mother, 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 17 

I was conscious of ether, an oil bubble on its large surface — of 
nebulae tenuous as my own life — at times thinner and more tenuous 
even, so that I shuddered before incommunicable darkness. Again I 
withdrew into my hot wet corner. 

And Night came again and with more intensity. I shuddered with 
foreboding feeling the parent life ebb, and yearningly and undeniably 
I clutched fast to the life-giving entrails. 

So for a long time. 

My mother could not tell what to do. She wanted me, but hated 
the thought of being tied. It was a struggle between our separate 
desires for life, but hers was a losing game, for she only half wanted 
to win. And the great cold gave place to great heat and that again 
to great cold and the intricate scarlet threads leapt madly through me. 
In anguish I could have said, "Let me go," but again she would not 
and through endless periods of time held me fast adding clay to clay 
with a sure yet wavering thumb. 

Primeval darkness enwrapped me and the smells of steaming savan- 
nahs, the green pond and the tiger's musk. 

I felt nails and teeth and to tear with them. 

Gradually I knew less of my mother. My prescience wavered and 
fled, leaving only the memory that it had been, and like a sultry hermit 
I wrapped my cloaks more tightly about me, adding cloak to cloak to 
shut out the irrelevant world of my mother and her thoughts. 

At certain periods the cloaks would become transparent and again 
there would be remote prickly nebulae, sticking fine needles through 
me. Quickly I buried myself within my cloaks and again darkness 
and the urgent buzz of life, working obscurely. 

And quietly and more quietly life seized me. I was aware of light, 
of density and of milk. 

Then grey-green electric darkness spluttered with blue sparks 
between pole and pole. 




Four Horological Poems 

by Ma Ic olm Co w ley 

IF I should go out of this room to walk 
down the inevitable street, he says, 
the houses would reach out after me 
their long tentacular fingers groping 
over the sidewalk would clutch and drag me 
into respectability through these yawning doorways 

(Forty a week and a small but growing savings account, a 

cat and two babies, count them two) 
and yet time is gnawing at the self-assurance of these houses 
time is wound 
like a worm devouring the entrails of these houses 

O the slow combustion of plaster, O curled yellow wallpaper 
tickling the ceilings 
These houses will tumble like rotten fruit to the ground. 


And observe if you please the action 

Of time upon the pedestrian world. 

It runs lightly over the faces and scrawls 

its signature in twisted lines under the eyes, 

it strips 

the flesh from the tendons and causes 

the tendons themselves to dissolve into their constituent carbon and 

it leaves t 

nothing but a structure of bones two hundred 

strutting down the street in a business suit 

The Little Review 19 

two hundred female bones in crepe georgette and the empty faces dyed 

with Pompeian, the rouge that beautifies, 
and yet these women 

wear time as lightly as a feather boa about the neck. . . . 
Time is a boa about the neck of all these people 
constricting slowly 
see they are choking 

their skin 
goes dead white 

under the rouge 
the bones rattle 

under the skin 
two hundred or rather 

two hundred and seven 


down the street 

in a feather 



There is nothing at all that lives in this room by day 
and dust sifts down on the soiled coverlet ; dust 
filters among the lace curtains making queer 
amorphous bars across the avenue of escape into the sunset, 
tread softly ; there are none but the dead remaining here. 

But at night something wakens 

in the darkness the clock 

ticks viciously at every second 

throbbing its heart out against a tin breast 

the minutes stalk 

pompously across the field of consciousness 

an hour is a time unreckoned 

The Little Review 

precise and categorical 

the seconds hammer on the wall. 

At their touch the flesh disintegrates 

the mind is reduced to cerebrum and cerebellum 

dirty grey whorls like a ball of cotton waste 

like a bundle of soiled linen, like clothes cast off and shoddy 

the seconds drip from a great height 

splashing against the tips of my nerves 

against the shell of my insubstantial body 

and each erodes like geologic rain 

a bit of flesh a bit of petrified brain. 

- — I shall countenance this no longer, said the Philosopher pick- 
ing up the clock and hurling it out the door, and as he spoke 
he heard it rolling down the circular staircase punctuating his 
remarks very regularly as if it clung to rhythm as the sole 
expression of life, life, I must have it, Life said the Philosopher 

returned to his accustomed place 

the room was grown so dark he could not see 

and the phosphorescence of his lace curtains dissolved leaving him out 
of time and space 

whirled in an eddy of eternity 

and yet his heart was hammering seventy beats to the minute 
time was throbbing against the fine skin of his temples 
time was dripping through his veins. 


These skeletons which I discuss, said the philosopher, 

rise at seven thirty 

the rain may fiddle down outside, or the sun turn the window shades 

into vulgar cloth of gold 
or the snow fall or any other of the usual phenomena of the seasor\ 

but they rise 
d-X seven thirty • -^ ^ , 

T he Little Review 21 

O tin alarm clocks detonating simultaneously in hall bed- 
rooms from the Battery to Yonkers from coast to coast and 
agencies in all the principal cities of the world 
O explosive clocks you are very evidently the symbol of some- 

AND the quarrel over breakfast at eight fifteen 

The hurry of the trip to the subway while the hands of the clock of 
the tower of the building of the Metropolitan Life Insurance 
Company of the greatest city of the greatest country — God's 
country you know it 

race past like the Bronx express. 

All morning they race over their correspondence 

Yours . 
of the 9th received and in reply we beg to state that 
all afternoon boredom seeps out of the pigeonholes of their desks 
to pile up in the wastebaskets until 
they are seized by a tired jubilation 
at five o'clock sharp 

O emotions you also have learned to punch the time clock 
But if 

at any time the alarm clocks failed 
simultaneously to function from coast to coast and in the agencies i i 

large foreign cities 
then perhaps 
people would forget the following emotional processes to wit 

the quarrel over breakfast 

the hurry 

the efficiency the 

boredom and 

the tired jubilation 
civilization would crumple like a silk hat that somebody sat on and 

forget to get up 
and we should be a frightfully long time straightening out the 


Black Umbrellas 

by Be?t Hecht 

LITTLE people hurry along in the dark street, their heads 
tucked away under black umbrellas that float jerkily like 
expiring balloons. Over them are the great buildings and 

the rain. 

The day is darkened and the city is without faces. A symmetrical 
stream of little black arcs stretches from distance to foreground as if 
emerging from a funnel. The little people drift with precision 
through the wash of the rain, bundled together by the great buildings 
and the sacred puerilities. The tops of their umbrellas run like waves, 
clinging to each other, eddying blindly at the crossings and careening 
on again with precision. 

All day long the umbrellas have been moving their black and end- 
less little current through the rain — a monotone of precisions, an un- 
varying symbol of the unvarying. Beneath them the dresses of women 
stretch themselves into thin triangles and the trousers of men reach in 
unchanging diagonals for the pavement. 

The little people clothed themselves in the morning with much care 
and there was a stir in the bedrooms of the city, a standing before 
mirrors and a determination to have, some day, more captivating 
pieces of cloth to hide themselves in. Now the little triangles and 
diagonals make a swarm of patterns identical as the rain and, like the 
rain, the little people are pouring out of 3'esterday into tomorrow. 

Life with its head hidden in an umbrella — little people with bits 
of black cloth giving half outline to the impenetrable cells they ex- 
change at death for wooden boxes — the rain drums and chatters about 
them and the day like a dark mirror ignores them. The great build- 
ings, magnificent grandfathers of the little black-arced umbrellas, 
stand dutifully excluding the rain. Electric lights already spray their 
circles of yellow mist upon the air. The stunted little sky of the 
city — the corridor of trade and restaurant signs that almost brushes 
the tops of the black umbrellas — is prematurely ablaze. A checker- 

TheLittleReview 23 

board flight of windows gleams out of the spatula-topped skyscrapers. 
The eyes of people wandering beyond the dripping webs of umbrellas 
catch sudden glimpses through the yellow spaces of the checkerboard 
of little puppet worlds inhabited by parts of furniture and unex- 
pected faces. 

Thus the city looks and moves under an umbrella in the street. I 
move with it, an old dream like a fawning beggar at my elbow. It 
is the dream of the urge of life. It follows me with the eyes of dead 
years. I have already given to this dream too many alms. Yet it 
fawns for more. Sorrowful dream of the urge of life, insatiable men- 
dicant at my elbow, its lips cajole but its eyes, deep and empty as a 
skull's, stare with many deaths. We walk on and the rain carries a 
whimpering into my heart — the whimpering of an old dream asking 

I invent names for the half hidden faces and give meanings to them. 
Adjectives are an antidote for the companion at my elbow and perhaps 
some day, wearied of listening to them, he will abandon me. 

There is a kinship among the black umbrellas bumbing and scrapin:;; 
at each other. I observe this. And yet beneath them there are only 
solitudes. The trousers of men and skirts of women move in soli- 
tudes — precise little solitudes as identical as the black umbrellas ana 
the rain. 

Walking before me under an umbrella is a young woman. He; 
face hidden from the rain is that of a rouged nun, as are the faces of 
the young women of the city who mask their vacuity with roses. 
She has been hurrying but now she moves more slowly. I invent a 
n::me for her and a meaning. She is unaware of this for it is the 
common fancy of little people swarming in streets that their solitude", 
are impenetrable. Within them they move, brazenly giving them- 
selves to the outrageous underworlds of thought. 

So the young woman walks before me in the street, locked in her 
little depths, surrounded by the secret names and images of her yes- 
terdays and tomorrows. I walk, following at her elbow as an old 
dream like a fawning beggar follows at mine. For it has occurred to 
me that the young woman is peering out of her solitude. She has 
become aware of the halloo of the rain as if it had just started. 

24 TheLittleReview 

It is obvious that she has been moving, aimlessly preoccupied, 
through the downpour, her words following lazily upon the pretty 
tracks of memory. And then the words suddenly jumbled and the 
pretty tracks became a circle in a void. It is this that makes hurrying 
little people abruptly slow their step and look up from the ground — 
as if to recover something. 

The 3"oung woman, deserted by her solitude, looked quickly about 
her and perceived only the solitudes of others which though identical 
are always meaningless. I observe and understand. She has for the 
moment escaped from a cell, a pleasing enough cell of remembered and 
expected destinations, to hnd herself free in a world of cells. Um- 
brellas run by her. Legs and arms thrust themselves senselessly about 
her. It is a matter of little enough importance — a young woman 
staring bewildered by the rain. Yet I remain at her elbow. There 
is in her bewilderment opportunity for the employment of adjectives. 

Something has amazed her. In her unoccupied brain the little 
world darting about under her eyes reflects itself as an unoccupied 
world; an unoccupied world stripped of destinations. In the um- 
brellas alone there seems a startling kinship and an even more startling 
superiority of purpose. They perhaps have meanings, but the little 
people under them have none. Their destinations have deserted them 
and they are moving with an incongruous hurry, having neither be- 
ginnings nor endings. 

For moments the young woman stares. I do not know her thought 
but I know that a lonesomeness has fastened upon her, that having 
lost her solitude she has lost the oblivious kinship of people in crowds. 
The intricate little furniture of life, her minutae of preoccupation 
have vanished from her as if a light that was shining on them had 
been shut off. So for this instant during which I have been observing 
her she is free of the world and there is in her the terrible premonition 
— for the world beats remorselessly on without her. The black um- 
brellas float jerkily like expiring balloons. The long V-shaped stretch 
of people crawls with continuous patience out of distance into distance. 
"Nowhere nowhere," chatters the rain and in the mouth of the young 
woman life lies suddenly tasteless. An old dream like a fawning 
beggar is at her elbow — the dream of the urge of life that but a 

The Little Review 25 

moment ago was the reality of realities. 

We walk on and the 3'oung woman surrounded by an unaccountable 
emptiness listens with foreign ears to the rain and with scrutinizing 
eyes regards the fantastic rim of her umbrella. The contours and 
noises of life seem not like the contours and noises of life but like 
haphazard lines and sounds without content. I employ my adjectives 
and she, lost in a curious despair, feels the pain, the nostalgia for the 
unknown slowly distend her breasts and sink thin-edged into the 
depths of her body. As she tries to think little fears burst excitedly 
in warm clouds in her throat ; keen mists lacerate and darken the little 
channels of her senses. Then words form themselves and she is 

"I want something. Something." 

The rain drums and chatters about us. The tides of umbrellas 
careen with precision along the base of the great buildings and the 
lights of the city, like bits of vivid pasteboard, drift over us in the 
downpour. The echo of the cry that rises from all endings burns in 
my heart. Cry of the dead, passionless fever of the emptied senses 
reaching for life beyond contours, I listen to the echo of its murmur 
in a city street and stare into a tangle of trousers and skirts. Life is a 
crafty beggar masking its dead eyes with new darknesses. 

Despair with thin fingers caresses the heart of the young woman 
and her senses sweep furtively the horizon of her little world and she 
searches in vain for the face of her longing. "Nowhere, nowhere," 
chatters the rain. The great buildings and the little black umbrellas 
say a nowhere and the long crowd in the street — the long crowd in 
the street runs away. 

I know the thought of the young woman. It has hurried hopefully 
to the man from whose arms she has come. She images again the 
delicious, thrilling hour of his talk and caresses. But as she thinks of 
them quickly, frightenedly, they become a part of the puppet worlds 
that lie within lights shining out of building windows. 

We walk on and the young woman stares into the dark mirror of 
the rain whose odours and lines give fugitive form to the mystery of 
space. Under her umbrella the rouge of her cheeks like a mask slips 
away and her face is white. There is a whiteness in her heart, the 

26 TheLittleReview 

gathering fear of one who waits for unexpected things. The echo of 
the words of longing swims sickeningly in her body. From the un- 
derworld of her thought demoniac impulses raise a dizzying babble. 
Inanimate they burst into wild flight and yet leave her motionless. 
The words of her longing have gone into her fingers and I watched 
her closed hand shiver; into her legs that plunge with violence beneath 
her skirt. She feels them almost coming to life in her breasts. So 
she is walking swiftly again, flying from an emptiness. 

We walk on until the block is ended and the young woman pauses 
to smile expectantly into a shop window. She breathes deeply and 
moves her umbrella aside so that the rain may wet her face. I know 
of what she is thinking. There is a curious sense of guilt — the con- 
fused shame of little people who turn their backs for a moment upon 
life as upon a beggar, and for a moment give words to the cry that 
rises from all endings. 

The young woman penitent and again alive whispers to herself it 
was the man from whose arms she has come. For there was no other 
something. Is not love one of the finalities? So her thoughts are 
again with him. Again he talks and caresses and there comes to her 
the glow, the keen yearning for satiety — tor some completion — that 
she calls by the name of love. 

There was nothing else she wanted. The rain made her dizzy. 
And yet the memory of the terror and elation that for an instant 
beneath the black umbrellas created a vacuum of her solitude clings 
to her like the ghost of a mysterious infidelity. 

Away from the shop and it too is gone. The little black-arced 
umbrellas swarm about us as if trying to fly over each other. Under 
them are the faces of people safely and intelligently locked in little 
solitudes. The rain drums and chatters about them, dropping walls 
from their umbrellas and burying them deeper in their secret destina- 
tions. To the young woman the thing in the street is again explic- 
able. It requires neither words nor thought. It is rain and people, 
buildings and umbrellas, lights and a shining pavement, and out of it 
rises the swift urge of life. 

We walk on and her hand touches mine. Her fingers close prettily 
over it. We talk and her words are eager. She has been thinking of 

T h e Lit tl e Re view 27 

me she says and her eyes lie avidly. She struggles against a confidence, 
wondering what there is to tell. It blurts forth then adroitly in a 
laugh, a laugh that belongs to the orchestra of sweet sounds. 

I am so happy, she says. I am so happy. The joy of return has 
made her buoyant, return into her solitude with its familiar little fur- 
niture among which I stand a decoration of the moment. She has 
forgotten the beggar who fawned in the rain at her elbow and things 
are explicable, things are clear, and have names and swing vividly 
through the dark day. 

We walk on, hands together, and an old dream whimpers in my 

In the Country 

by Robert Reiss 

KID in the white grass 
Fastened as a twig of moon 
Onto the night that holds a glass 
Eye ever before your eyes of calculation, 
Remove your finger from the trees 
And betray a slight sentiment; 
The bus-top wind perhaps agrees 

I am devoid of emulation. 

In the city your optical surprise 

Covers with its blackness all my skies, 

But here among the sassafras 

You cannot lay fingers on green grass. 



by Rise von Freytag-Loringhoven 

Holy Skirts 

Thought about holy skirts — to tune of "Wheels are growing on 
rosebushes." Beneath immovable — carved skirt of forbidding sexless- 
ness — over pavement shoving — gliding — nuns have wheels. 

Undisputedly ! since — beneath skirts — they are not human! Kept 
carefully empty cars — running over religious track — local — express 
— according to velocity of holiness through pious steam — up to 
heaven ! 

What for — 

what do they unload there — 

ivhy do they runf 

Senseless wicked expense on earth's provisions — pious idleness — 
all idleness unless idleness before action — idleness of youth! 

Start action upstairs — he? 

How able do that — all of sudden — when on earth — machinery in- 
suffient — weak — unable to carry — virtuous? 
Virtue: staganation. 
Staganation : absent contents — lifeblood — courage — action! action-n! 

Why here ? 
What here for — ? 

To good? ah — !? hurry — speed up — run amuck — jump — beat it! 
farewell ! f are-thee-well — good-bye ! bye ! 
ah — bye-ye-ye ! 

IV e — of this earth — like this earth! 

make heaven here — 

take steps here — 

to possess bearing hereafter — 


The Little Review 29 

That we know how to enter: 

reception room — drawing room — 

banquet hall of : 

abyssmal serious jester 

whimsical serene power/ 

Poke ribs : 

old son of gun — 

old acquaintance! 

Kiss : knees — toes ! 

Home — ! 

Our home! 

We are home ! 

After : 

smiling grim battle — 

laughter — excitement — 

swordplay — 

sweat — 

blood ! 

After accomplishing — 
what sent for to accomplish. 
Children of His loin — 
Power of power. 

Marie Ida Seqiie?ice 

{Gesture of soul — action-: architecture 
— evolutionary) 


Mine flaunting dress — mine copper hair — 
Thou — purple — dark — — 
Slate iris — forehead wide. 

Mine lips — as shaped and chiselled after thine — • 
The nose is not — mine nose is aquiline- 
like tower — thine is short, 

30 The Little Review 

Thine hands — so imminently lovely — 
Frail — faintly dimpled — tapery fingertips — 
To worship — they are not the hands of me — 
Nor chaste as thine ponder mine lips. 

Mine scarlet heart — mine slate-green eye — 

copper-sprayed star — 

Are thine — profound — ! 

— Learned mine eyes what never thine eyes lit — 

Desire incarnate — erected fit 

Cradle for thine soul. 

Naj' — fundamentally I am thine root — 
Gyrating dizzying and high 
Upon that bloodcrest — mating a galoot 
Of steel and flame — making thee die. 


Prince Elect 

And well — mine mother — do we hate — ! 
We ourselves — to ourselves — are costly — 
Priceless — as Tormalinde on the gate — 
— of death. 

I — as thou before — 

am prince elect to that estate — 

that shone thine teeth as shells along the shore- 

— of life. 

Aie — proud malignant corse! 

i c/5 










Margaret Anderson 

Foreign Editors: 

John Rodker Jules Romains 

Advisory Board 


''The Public Taste' 
by Mary Widney 

I HAVE been puzzled by that explanatory "making no compromise 
with the public taste" which appears relentlessly upon the Little 
Review covers. It seems singularly obtuse for so perspicacious a 
magazine. The whole spirit of the work between its covers belies the 
obvious interpretation: that you are capitalizing your agnosticism — 
not too delicately angling for the dilettante iconoclast. If you are 
sincerely regardless of the pubjic taste why be so blatant about it? 
A true contempt is impersonal — ^a true disregard cannot be cognizant 
of the thing disregarded. The small boy whistling in the grave 

The Little Review 33 

yard — and the Little Review slapping the face of public taste. Some, 
way it lacks dignity, and, what is more serious, casts aspersions on 
the worthiness of the movement it espouses. I may be misunder- 
standing grossly, but as I have said, I am puzzled. Won't you 
explain ? 

[I should like to write you a long heart-felt letter about that slogan. 
It has been one of my compromises for the past three years. It came 
to us, among many other precious things, from Ezra Pound. 

Taste in Art is a thing that could never get my attention ; and so, 
anything as casual as that taste made by the newspapers, lectures 
bureaus, the fashion-art magazines, and Mr. Mencken could never 
lead me to endorse the slogan. It does help, as colour, to balance the 
heavy letters at the top, and it does undoubtedly save many people 
their quarters. 

I believe in peace and silence for and from the "masses" — a happy 
undisturbed people. I don't know how this can be brought about en- 
tirely. I try not to go very far into what the suffragists must be 
feeling when they contemplate what public taste has chosen as pre- 
sidential candidates. — ;7z.] 

^'D ado" a77d Rise von Freytag 
von Loringhoven 
by yohn Rodker 

PARIS has had Dada for five 3^ears, and we have had Else von 
Freytag-Loringhoven for quite two years. But great minds 
think alike and great natural truths force themselves into cog- 
nition at vastly separated spots. In Else von Freytag-Loringhoven 
Paris is mystically united New York. 

*Our copies of Dada being temporarily lost, and Mr. Rodker's ms. 
being h-ndwritten and impossible to read, we print the above with apologies 
for any misquotations. 

34 T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i etv 

This makes clear the poem "Narin Tzarissamanilj." The president 
of Dada (there are one or two but it costs 3 frs.) goes by the name 
of Tristan Tzara. His photograph is intense enough to please any 
one. It is possible that Else von Freytag-Loringhoven is the first 
Dadaiste in New York and that the Little Review has discovered her. 

Let me quote some Dada poems. The resemblance is striking: 
La fibre s'etiflamme et les pyr amides 

(tres vite) 

aeaeaeaeaea eda s'eclarent les dignes verticales 
ledah ega les torpilleurs aux fontaines 
ne touchez pas sous I'orage extrarose mourir mourir 
les ancres les soeurs grises et les philosophes sur 
I'ultrablantique les coupoles 

aegoov aaa crepuscule 
derriere le pastel le perforatrices les perforatrices 
hhhaa il a signe le quadruple 
bregan aeaeaeaeaeaaaa. 

T. Evola. 

Metals form part of Mme. Loringhoven's virulent compost. Hear 
the Dada's : 

Tourmentes par le desir de voir leur statue a 
Paris, place de I'Etoile, les presidents et pro- 

prietaires du mouvement Dada pissent du bronze. 
It's a pity that such impetuosity should result only in: 

Begue Ventriloque 

ok okokok 

Dans sa vessie est remonte apres une descente en 

Le cerveau de I'aimee 
CEuf a la coque de ses reves cuits 
Beurre Soufre Platone 
Et puis rien 
Et alors. . . 

Georges Ribemofit-Dessaignet, 

r^ I \ 

The Little Review 35 


Zim ba da bruin soyais oracles 

II est un nez ailette tribe de Crooks 

Zinc autel eclair tartines negres 

Ibidem sur le ventre en fleurs 

de toutes crues sauve la Certa ■ ' 

En carrousel muet honore Dieu le Pere. 

Dure-mere cachotterie . | 

Aux sourcils f aits a I'encore souf re ' 

Dompte la vergue ventriloque '^' 

Andre Gide a la pituite. 

Paul Der?nee. 

We seem to remember Marinetti at this game. Dada is different. 
It says it won't take seriously (beyond coin, I mean) its lack of 
seriousness. As I said before, they print each other's photographs ; 
all appear young men and women of blameless lives. . . and the 
most earnest intentions. Mme. Loringhoven is I feel sure to be 
equally congratulated. For my taste I find her poems a little too 
sweet and sentimental, but every one to his taste. In her search for 
beauty she resembles Tristan Tzara whom we have already men- 
tioned. This poem is without blague: 

La queue du diable est une bicyclette 

la morsure equatoriale dans le roc bleu 

accable la nuit senteur intime de berceaux amoureux 

la fleur est un reverbere poupee ecoute le mercure 

qui monte 

qui monte le moulin a vent accroche au viaduc 

avant-hier n'est pas la ceramique des chrysanthemes 
qui tourne la tete et le froid 

I'heure a sonne dans ta bouche 

encore un ange brise qui tombe comme un ex- 
crement de vantour i 

etend I'accolade sur le desert fane 

lambeaux d'oreilles songees lepre fer. 

Tristan Tzara. 

36 T h e L it 1 1 e R e V i e w 

The Little Review might adopt certain of Dada's "artichauts" for 
its correspondents. "Qu'est ce qu'est beau? Qu'est ce que c'est laid? 
Qu'est que c'est grand, fort, faible? Qu'est ce que c'est Car- 
pentier, Renan, Foch ? Connais-pas. Qu'est ce que c'est moi 1* 
Connais pas, connais pas. 
or from this Manisfeste Dada : 

Dada, lui, ne vent rien, rien, il faut quelque chose 
par que le public dise: "nous ne comprenous rein, 
rien, rien. . . Les Dadaistes ne sout rien, rien, 
rien, bien certainment ils n'arriverons a rien, 
rien, rien. 

Francis Picabia 
{qui ne sait rien, rien, rien). 
This movement should capture America like a prairie fire. From 
Kreymborg to Lindsay the whole modern movement is photographed 
either prototype or the other thing. 

They don't seem to have got Joyce, though Pound contributes 
a note to the effect that 

Dada No. 1. Quelques jeunes hommes intelligents 
stranded in Zurich desire correspondence with 
other unfortunates similarly situated — other god- 
forsaken corners of the earth. 

Dada Bulletin 5 Feb. Ils ont echappe. They 
have got to Paris. La Bombe! La zut! — 
excellsior! ! 

Note from an a?^ticle by May Si?7clair 
171 the ^'English Review'' 

IF the Little Rcviezv had never printed anything but what came to 
it through its foreign editor it might by this time have ranked as 
an important international concern ; unfortunately it printed many 
things for which Mr. Pound was not responsible, and when it tres- 
passed its iniquities were laid on him. Besides he gave opportunities. 
His critical manner wa§ deceptive. When the Little Review an- 

The Little Review 37 

nounced its Henry James number, with an article by Ezra Pound, 
some of us had visions of an irresponsible and agile animal shinning 
up a monument to hang by his feet from the top. 

"What actually happened? 

"I do not know any book yet written on Henry James of more solid 
value than Mr. Pound's "Brief Note" in the Little Review." 

[My experience and spiritualistic beliefs in international magazines 
of art and letters make me long for May Sinclair's advice both as 
an efficiency expert and as a fortune-teller. 

Aside from "Ulysses" all of the work sent to us by Pound could 
have gone into eight or ten numbers of the Little Review. If this 
could have captured the international art consciousness we are over- 
come with grief that we interfered, and frustrated what wasn't 
exactly our aim: to become an "international concern." I do hold 
with Miss Sinclair that if any one could have made us an international 
concern it could only have been some one as American as Pound with 
his same interest in and appreciation of foreign work. 

We are here to trespass — we will stand by our own iniquities. We 
have not trespassed in thinking that all the international writers are 
not living in Europe.— j//.] 

^^The Modest Woman 

by Else von Freytag-Lortnghoven 

Artists are aristocrats. 

Artists who call themselves artists — not aristocrats — are plain work- 
ing people, mixing up art with craft, in vulgar untrained brain. 

Who wants us to hide our joys (Joyce?) 

If I can eat I can eliminate — it is logic — it is why I eat! Mj' 
machinery is built that way. Yours also — though you do not like to 
think of — mention it — because you are not aristocrat. 

Your skirts are too long — out of "modesty," not decoration — when 
you lift them you do not do it elegantly — proudly. 

Why should I — proud engineer — be ashamed of my machinery — 
part of it ? 

38 The Little Review 

Is there any engineer of steel machinery who is? unless he runs 
ramshackle one? 

The stronger she works — the prouder he is ! 

Has he no right to talk shop? He, not you! for you are no en- 
gineer! Helpless victim — pulled over gravel — dust — by that inde- 
cent machine — j^our body — over life's glorious wilderness — not seeing 
landscape ! Joyce is engineer ! one of boldest — most adventurous — 
globetrotter — ! to talk shop is his sacred business — we want him to 
— to love engine that carries him through flashing glades to his grave 
— his glorious estate. 

If I can write — talk — about dinner — pleasure of my palate — as 
artist or as aristocrat — with my ease of manner — can afford also to 
mention my ecstasies in toilet room ! 

If you can not — you are invited to silence — by all means! 

If your ears are too vulgar — put white cotton into — in tufts — 
bunches! fitting decoration! You did that — already — but why have 
you to show it to the world at large? afflicted people should stay 
home — ^with family — friends. You are immodest — because you are 
not healthy. 

Toilets are made for swift cleanliness — not modesty ! 

America's comfort: — sanitation — outside machinery — has made 
American forget own machinery — body! He thinks of himself less 
than of what should be his servant — steel machinery. 

He has mixed things! For: he has no poise — no tradition. Par- 
venu — ashamed of his hide — as he well might. 

Slips behind smoothness — smugness — sanitation — cleanliness. 

Ah ! now he is "personality" — dressed up — sorry — sanitary lout — 
just from barber — smelling from barber. 

That is American! it is truly disgusting to imagine him in any 
"physical functions" — eating not excluded. 

Eats stupidly also. 

Has reason to hide — feels that — and : — because newly rich — in vast 
acquisition — feels also he has something to say to everything — every- 
body — as did in war — to ridicule. 

Smart aleck — countrylout — in Sunday attire — strutting! 

Yawning — all teeth — into space — sipping his coffee with thunder 

The Little Review 39 

noise — elbow on table — little finger outspread stiffly — he knows how 
to behave in society ! 

Why — America — can you not be modest? stay back — attentive — 
as wellbred child? You have so much to learn — just out of bushes! 

But — you are no wellbred child — you are noisy — nosey — bad-man- 
nered — assumptive. 

In my opinion — I have sharp eyes — you are no child of nature — 
you are changeling! 

You forget, madame — that we are the masters — go by our rules. 

Goethe was grandly obscene — what do you know about it? Flau- 
bert — Swift — Rabelais— Arabian Nights — Bible if you please! only 
difference — Bible is without humour — great stupidity! So: how 
dare you strut — step out — show yourself with your cotton-tuft in ear ? 

In Europe — when inferiors do not understand superiors — they re- 
tire modestly — mayhap baffled — but in good manner. By that fact 
— that they do not understand — they know their place. They are 
not invited — of class inferior — the dance is not theirs. 

They can not judge — for: they lack real manners— education- - 

If they are desirous of judging — sometime — they must think — 
study — rise — slowly! So society is made — in Europe — slowly — ! so: 
culture — so : aristocratic public. 

In such public — we dance. 

That attitude of the learner — the inferior — you should feel in re 
gard to James Joyce. 

That you do not — shows you have less inherent culture than Euro- 
pean washer-lady. 

Here — madame — every bank clerk meddles. 

Ancient Romans had proverb — one of few great principals of 
world-structure — culture: Quod licit Jovi, nun licit Bovi. 

To show hidden beauty of things — there are no limitations! Only 
artist can do that — that is his holy office. Stronger — braver he is — 
more he will explore into depths. 

His eye — ear — finger — nose — tongue — are as keen as yours dull. 

Without him — without his help — you would become less than dog 
— cow — worm. 

40 TheLittleReview 

To them nature is art — we live in civilization! You would lose 
all sense of life — disintegrate into maniacs of wilderness — not into 
anmals — for: animals are perfect — Nature to them — civilization to us. 

Do not believe genius is without error. Ah — nay — but: without 
sentimentality — pity — with relentless purpose — conviction — patience 
— time. 

Do not eat the Little Review. 

Therein all strong angels are ! 

Already high scientist not any more knows how to be "ashamed" — 
silent — about anything. 

You can suffer that — can you not? 

If not — you are dunce — even in America — should keep tongue. 

What scientist can say only in impersonal detached dignified quiet- 
ness — servant of God — genius can say — does — any way he first hap- 
pens to feel — he is God's messenger — in him God incarnate. 

I have not read "Ulysses." As story it seems impossible — to James 
Joyce's style I am not yet quite developed enough — makes me diffi- 
culty — too intent on my own creation — no time now. 

Sometime I will read him — have no doubt — time of screams — de- 
lights — dances — soul and body — as with Shakespeare. 

For snatches I have had show me it is more worth while than 
many a smooth coherent story by author or real genuine prominence. 

The way he slings "obscenities" — handles them — never forced — 
never obscene — vulgar! (thank Europe for such people — world will 
advance. ) 

Shows him one of highest intellects — with creative power abundant 
— soaring ! 

In fact — his obscenities — until now — are only thing I could taste 
— enjoy — with abandon — his blasphemies. Pure soul of child — wis- 
dom of sage — genius. 

Such one you dare approach — little runt? 

Whatever made you read him — Little Review — anyway? 

Back to my astonishment! 

You see how ridiculous you are? 

Well — if not — others will. 

That is why I wrote this — ! 









by yames yoyce 

Episode ^ XIII [Continued) 

CANON O'HANLON put the blessed sacrament back 
into the tabernacle and the choir sang Laudate Dominum 
omnes gentes and then he locked the tabernacle door be- 
cause the benediction was over and Father Conroy 
handed him his hat to put on and Edy asked was she 
coming but Jacky Caffrey called out: 
— O, look, Cissy! 

And they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too 
over the trees beside the church, blue and then green and purple. 
— It's fireworks, Cissy Caffrey said. 

And they ail ran down the strand to see over the houses and the 
church, helterskelter, Edy with the pushcar with baby Boardman in 
it and Cissy holding Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldn't 
fall running. 
— Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It's the bazaar fireworks. 

But Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of being at their 
beck and call. If they could run like rossies she could sit so she 
said she could see from where she was. The eyes that were fastened 
upon her set her pulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, 
meeting his glance, and a light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion 
was in that face, passion silent as the grave, and it had made her his. 
At last they were left alone without the others to pry and pass remarks, 
and she knew he could be trusted to the death, steadfast, a man of 
honour to his fingertips. She leaned back far to look up where the 
fireworks were and she caught her knee in her hands so as not to 
fall back looking up and there was no one to see only him and her 
when she revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that, 
supply soft and delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the pant- 
ing of his heart his hoarse breathing, because she knew about the 

T h e L it 1 1 e R e V i e w 43 

passion of men like that, hotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her 
once in secret about the gentleman lodger that was staying with them 
out of the record office that had pictures cut out of papers of those 
skirtdancers and she said he used to do something not very nice that 
you could imagine sometimes in the bed. But this was different from 
a thing like that because there was all the difference because she 
could almost feel him draw her face to his and the first quick hot 
touch of his handsome lips. Besides there was absolution so long as 
you didn't do the other thing before being married and there ought 
to be woman priests that would understand without telling out 
and Cissy Calfrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of dreamy 
look in her eyes so that she too, my dear, and besides it was on 
account of that other thing coming on the way it did. 

And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned 
back and the garters were blue to match on account of the transparent 
and they all saw it and shouted to look, look there it was and she 
leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queer 
was flying about through the air, a soft thing to and fro, dark. And 
she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees up, up, and 
they were all breathless with excitement as it went higher and higher 
and she had to lean back more and more to look up after it, high, 
high, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused with a divine, an 
entrancing blush from straining back and he could see her other 
things too, nainsook knickers, four and eleven, on account of being 
white and she let him and she saw that he saw and the it went so 
high it went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every 
limb from being bent so far back that he could see high up above her 
knee where no-one ever and she wasn't ashamed and he wasn't either 
to look in that immodest way like that because he couldn't resist 
the sight like those skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentle- 
men looking and he kept on looking, looking. She would fain have 
cried to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms to him to 
come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow. And then a rocket 
sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! then the Roman candle 
burst and it was like a sigh of O ! and everyone cried O ! O ! and it 
gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and 

44 The Little Review 

ah ! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely ! 
O so soft, sweet, soft! 

Then all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! 
She glanced at him as she bent forward quickly, a glance of piteous 
protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a girl. He was 
leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is he) 
stands silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes. 
What a brute he had been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had 
called to him and, wretch that he was, how had he answered? An 
utter cad he had been! But there was an infinite store of mercy in 
those eyes, for him too a word of pardon even though he had erred 
and sinned and wandered. That was their secret, only theirs, alone 
in the hiding twilight and there was none to know or tell save the 
little bat that flew so softly through the evening to and fro and little 
bats don't tell. 

Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the football field to 
show what a great person she was: and then she cried 
— Gerty Gerty! We're going. Come on. We can see from farther up. 
Gerty had an idea. She slipped a hand into her kerchief pocket 
and took out the wadding and waved in reply of course without 
letting him and then slipped it back. Wonder if he's too far to. She 
rose. She had to go but they would meet again, there, and she would 
dream of that till then, tomorrow. She drew herself up to her full 
height. Their souls met in a last lingering glance and the eyes 
that reached her heart, full of a strange shining, hung enraptured on 
her sweet flowerlike face. She half smiled at him, a sweet forgiving 
smile — and then they parted. 

Slowly without looking back she went down the uneven strand 
to Cissy, to Edy, to Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Board- 
man. It was darker now and there were stones and bits of wood 
on the strand and slippy seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet 
dignity characteristic of her but with care and very slowly because — 
because Gerty MacDowell was . 
Tight boots? No. She's lame! O! 

Mr. Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That's 
why she's left on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought 

TheLittleReview 45 

something was wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. Glad I 
didn't know it when she was on show. Hot little devil all the same. 
Near her monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I have such 
a bad headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all right. 
All kinds of crazy longings. Girl in Tranquilla convent told me 
liked to smell rock oil. Sister? That's the moon. But then why don't 
all women menstruate at the same time with same moon? I mean. 
Depends on the time they were born, I suppose. Anyhow I got the 
best of that. Made up for that tramdriver this morning. That 
gouger M'Coy stopping me to say nothing. And his wife's engage- 
ment in the country valise voice like a pickaxe. Thankful for small 
mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want it 
themselves. Shoals of them every evening poured out of offices. Catch 
'em alive. O. Pity they can't see themselves. A dream of wellfilled 
hose. Where was that? Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel street : 
for men only. Peeping Tom. Willie's hat and what the girls did 
with it. Do they snapshot those girls or is it all a fake. Lingerie 
does it. Felt for the curves inside her deshabille. Excites them also 
when they're. Molly. Why I bought her the violet garters. Say 
a woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out. Pinned together. 
O Mairy lost the pin of her. Dressed up to the nines for some body. 
In no hurry either. Always off to a fellow when they are. Out on 
spec probably. They believe in chance because like themselves. And 
the others inclined to give her an odd dig. Mary and Martha. Girl 
friends at school, arms round each other's necks, kissing and whis- 
pering secrets about nothing in the convent garden. Nuns with 
whitewashed faces, cool coifs and their rosaries going up and down, 
vindictive too for what they can't get. Barbed wire. Be sure now 
and write to me. And I'll write to yoxi. Now won't you? Molly 
and Josie Powell. Then meet once in a blue moon. Tableau. O, look 
who it is for the love of God ! How are you at all ? What have you 
been doing with yourself? Kiss and delighted to, kiss, to see you. 
Picking holes in each other's appearance. You're looking splendid. 
Wouldn't lend each other a pinch of salt. 


Devils they are when that's coming on them. Molly often told 

46 The Little Review 

me feel things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of my foot. O that 
way! O, that's exquisite! Feel it myself too. Good to rest once in 
a. way. Wonder if it's bad to go with them then. Safe in one 
way. Something about withering plants I read in a garden. Besides 
they say if the flower withers she wears she's a flirt. All are. Dare- 
say she felt I. When you feel like that you often meet what you 
feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look at. Always know a fellow 
courting: collars and cuffs. Same time might prefer a tie undone 
or something. Trousers? Suppose I when I was? No. Gently does 
it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kiss in the dark and never tell. Saw 
something in me. Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am than 
some poet chap with bearsgrease plastery hair, lovelock over his 
dexter optic. To aid gentleman in literary. Ought to attend to my 
appearance my age. Didn't let her see me in profile. Still, j^ou never 
know. Pretty girls and ugly men marrying. Beauty and the beast. 
Besides I can't be so if Molly. Took ofiE her hat to show her hair. 
Wide brim bought to hide her face, meeting someone might know 
her, bend down or carry a bunch of flowers to smell. Hair strong 
in rut. Ten bob I got for Molly's combings when we were on the 
rocks in Holies street. Why not? Suppose he gave her money. 
Why not? All a prejudice. She's worth ten, fifteen, more a pound. 
What? I think so. All that for nothing. Bold hand. Mrs Marion. 
Did I forget to write address on that letter like the postcard I sent to 
Flynn. And the day I went to Drimmie's without a necktie. 
Wrangle with Molly it was put me off. No, I remember. Ritchie 
Goulding. He's another. Weighs on his mind. Funny my watch 
stopped at half past four. Was that just when he, she? 

O, he did. Into her. She did. Done. 


Mr. Bloom with careful hand recomposed his shirt. O Lord, that 
little limping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy. After effect 
not pleasant. They don't care. Complimented perhaps. Go home 
and say night prayers with the kiddies. Well, aren't they? Still I 
feel. The strength it gives a man. That's the secret of it. Good 
job I let off there behind coming out of Dignam's. Cider that was. 
Otherwise I couldn't have. Makes you want to sing after. Lacaiis 

TheLittleReview 47 

esant tatatara. Suppose I spoke to her. What about? Bad plan 
however if you don't know how to end the conversation. Ask them 
a question they ask you another. Good idea if you're stuck. Gain 
time. But then you're in a cart. Wonderful of course if you say: 
Good evening, and you see she's on for it: good evening. Girl in 
Meath street that night. All the dirty things I made her say. Parrots. 
Wish she hadn't called me sir, O, her mouth in the dark! And you 
a married man with a single girl. That's what they enjoy. Taking 
a man from another woman. French letter still in my pocketbook. 
But might happen sometime. I don't think. Come in. All is pre- 
pared. I dreamt. What? Worst is beginning. How they change 
the venue when it's not what they like. Ask you do you like mush- 
rooms because she once knew a gentleman who. Yet if I went the 
whole hog, say : I want to, something like that. Because I did. She 
too. Offend her. Then make it up. Pretend to want something 
awfully, then cry off for her sake. Flatters them. She must have 
been thinking of someone else all the time. What harm? Must 
since she came to the use of reason, he, he and he. First kiss does 
the trick. Something inside them goes pop. Mushy like, tell by their 
eye, on the sly. First thoughts are best. Remember that till their 
dying day. Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the 
Moorish wall beside the gardens. Fifteen she told me. But her 
breasts were developed. Fell asleep then. After Glencree dinner 
that was when we drove home the featherbed mountain. Gnashing 
her teeth in sleep. Lord mayor had his eye on her too. Val Dillon. 

There she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fire- 
works. Up like a rocket, down like a stick. And the children, twins 
they must be, waiting for something to happen. Want to be grown- 
ups. Dressing in mother's clothes. Time enough, understand all 
the ways of the world. And the dark one with the mop head and 
the nigger mouth. 1 knew she could whistle. Mouth made for that. 
Why that highclass whore in Jammet's wore her veil only to her nose. 
Would you mind, please, telling me the right time? Fll tell you the 
right time up a lane. Say prunes and prisms forty times every morn- 
ing, cure for fat lips. Caressing the little boy too. Onlookers see 

48 T he Lit tl e Review 

most of the game. Of course they understand birds, animals, babies. 
In their line. 

Didn't look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn't 
give that satisfaction. Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside 
girls. Fine eyes she had, clear. It's the white of the eye brings that 
out not so much the pupil. Did she know what I ? Course. Like a 
cat sitting beyond a dog's jump. Woman. Never meet one like that 
Wilkins in the high school drawing a picture of Venus with all his 
belongings on show. Call that innocence? Poor idiot! His wife has 
her work cut out for her. Sharp as needles they are. When I said 
to Molly the man at the corner of CufEe street was goodlooking, 
thought she might like, twigged at once he had a false arm. Had too. 
Where they get that? Handed down from father to mother to daugh- 
ter, I mean. Bred in the bone. Milly for example drying her hand- 
kerchief on the mirror to save the ironing. And when I sent her for 
Molly's Paisley shawl to Presscott's by the way that ad I must, 
carrying home the change in her stocking. Clever little minx! I never 
told her. Neat way she carries parcels too. Attract men, small thing 
like that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood flow back 
when it was red. Who did you learn that from ? Nobody. Something 
the nurse taught me. O, don't they know? Three years old she was 
in front of Molly's dressing-table just before we left Lombard street 
west. Me have a nice pace. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the 
world. Young student. Straight on her pins anyway not like the 
other. Still she was game. Lord, I am wet. Devil you are. Swell 
of her calf. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. Not 
like that frump today. A. E. Rumpled stockings. Or the one in 
Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel. 

A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. 
Zrads and zrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy ran out to see 
and Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve of 
the rocks. Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She 
smelt an onion. Darling, I saw your. I saw all. 


Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. 
For this relief much thanks. In Hamlet, that is. Lord! It was all 

The Little Review 40 

things combined. Excitement. When she leaned back felt an ache at 
the butt of my tongue. Your head it simplj' swirls. He's right. Might 
have made a worse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about 
nothing. Then I will tell you all. Still it was a kind of language 
between us. It couldn't be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be 
false name however like my and the address Dolphin's barn a blind. 

Her maiden- name ivas Je/nima Broivn 

And she lived zvith her mother in Irishtown. 

Place made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same 
brush. Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to 
her as if it understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never 
could throw anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. 
Sad however because it lasts only a few years till they settle down to 
potwalloping and fullers' earth for the baby when he does ah ah. 
No soft job. Saves them. Keeps them out of harm's way. Nature. 
Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam. Children's hands always 
round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even closed at first, sour 
milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't to have given 
that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs. Beaufoy, 
Purefoy. Must call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan there 
still. And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriage- 
able. Worst of all the night Mrs Diggan told me in the city arms. 
Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have 
that in your nose all night, whiff of stale boose. Bad policy however 
to fault the husband. Chickens come home to roose. They stick by 
one another like glue. Maybe the women's fault also. That's where 
Molly can knock spots off them. It is the blood of the south. Moorish. 
Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the opulent. Just com- 
pare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton in 
the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out 
some kind of a nondescript, wouldn't know what to call her. Always 
see a fellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's destiny in it, falling 
in love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would 
go to the dogs if some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little 
chits of girls, height of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As 
God made them He matched them. Sometime? children turn out well 

50 The Little Review 

enough. Twice nought makes one. This wet is very unpleasant. 


Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long 
and the short of it. Very strange about my watch. Wonder is there 
any magnetic influence between the person because that was about the 
time he. Yes, I suppose at once. Cat's away the mice will play. I 
remember looking in Pill lane. Also that now is magnetism. Bac'c 
of everything magnetism. Earth for instance pulling this and bein"^ 
pulled. That causes movement. And time? Well that's the time 
the movement takes. Then if one thing stopped the whole ghesabo 
would stop bit by bit. Because it's all arranged. Magnetic needle 
tells you what's going on in the sun, the stars. Little piece of steel 
iron. When you hold out the fork. Come. Come. Tip. Woman 
and man that is. Fork and steel. Molly, he. Dress up and look and 
suggest and let you see and see more and defy you if you're a man to 
see that and legs, look look and. Tip. Have to let fly. 

Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before 
third person. Molly, her underjaw stuck out, head back about the 
farmer in the ridingboots with the spurs. And when the painters 
were in Lombard street west. Smell that I did, like flowers. It was 
too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in the paint. Make 
their own use of everything. Same time doing it scraped her slipper 
on the floor so they wouldn't hear. But lots of them can't kick the 
beam, I think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general 
all round over me and half down my back. 

Wait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her 
hand. I leave you this to think of me when I'm far away on the 
pillow. What is it? Heliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I 
think. She'd like scent of that kind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. 
Why Molly likes opoponax. Suits her with a little jessamine mixed. 
Her high notes and her low notes. At the dance night she met him, 
dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. She was wearing her black 
and it had the perfume of the time before. Good conductor, is it? 
Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's some connection. For instance 
if you go into a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing too. Why 
did I smell it only now? Took its time in corning like herself, slow 

The Little Review 51 

but sure. Suppose it's ever so many millions of tiny grains blown 
across. Yes, it is. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this morn- 
ing, smell them leagues off. Tell you what it is. It's like a fine fine 
veil or web they have all over the skin fine like what do you call it 
gossamer and they're always spinning it out of them, fine as anything, 
rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings to everything she takes 
off. Vamp of her stockings. Warm shoes. Stays. Drawers: little kick 
taking them oft'. Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff in her 
shift on the bed. Know her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too. Re- 
minds me of strawberries and cream. Wonder where it is really. 
There or the armpits or under the neck. Because you get it out of 
all holes and corners. Hyacinth perfume made of oil of ether or some- 
thing. Muskrat. Bag under their tails. Dogs at each other behind. 
Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm. Hm. Very well, 
thank you. Animals go by that. Yes, now, look at it that way. We're 
the same. Some women for instance warn you off when they have 
their period. Come near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat 
on. Like what ? Potted herrings gone stale or. Boof ! Please keep 
off the grass. 

Perhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary 
gloves Long John had on his desk the other. Breath? What you eat 
and drink gives that. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be connected 
with that because priests that are supposed to be are different. Women 
buzz round it like flies round treacle. O father, will you? Let me 
be the first to. That diffuses itself all through the body, permeates. 
Source of life. And it's extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. 
Let me. 

Mr. Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of 
his waistcoat. Almonds or. No. Lemons it is. And no, that's the 
soap. ,| !|^ 

O by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind. 
Never went back and the soap not paid. Two and nine. Bad opinion 
of me he'll have. Call tomorrow. How much do I owe you ? Three 
and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him giving credit 
another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows run 

52 TheLittleReview 

up a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into 
somewhere else. 

Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just 
went as far as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks 
mangled out: had a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after 
meals. After supper walk a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance 
somewhere, government sit. Walk after him now makes him awk- 
ward like those newsboys me today. That's the way to find out. Ask 
yourself who is he now. The Man on the Beach, prize tidbit story by 
MrLeopold Bloom. Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. 
And that fellow today at the graveside in the brown mackintosh. 
Corns on his kismet however. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. 
Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some somewhere. Salt in the 
Ormond damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old Betty's joints 
are on the rack. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about ships around 
they fly in the twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal reader. 
And distant hills seem coming nigh. 

Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. People 
afraid of the dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lighting up time. Jewels 
diamonds flash better. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to 
hurt you. Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run 
you through the small guts for nothing. Still two types there are 
you bob against. Scowl or smile. Not at all. Best time to spray plants 
too in the shade after the sun. Were those nightclouds there all the 
time? Land of the setting sun this. Homerule sun setting in the 
northeast. My native land, goodnight. 

Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on 
white fluxions. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold, 
sore on the mouth. Friction of the position. Like to be that rock she 
sat on. Also the library today: those girls graduates. Happy chairs 
under them. But it's the evening influence. They all feel that. Open 
like flowers, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes in 
ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps. Nightstock in Mat 
Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. June that was too I 
wooed. The year returns. And now? Sad about her lame of course 
but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity. They take ad-, 

TheLittleReview 53 

All quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The 
rhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums and I the 
leavings. All that old hill has seen. Names change: that's all. Lovers: 
yum yum. 

Tired I feel now. Drained all the manhood out of me, little wretch. 
She kissed me. My youth. Never again. Only once it comes. Or 
hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. Returning not the same. 
Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothing 
new under the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's barn. Are you not happy 
in your? Naughty darling. At Dolphin's barn charades in Luke 
Doyle's house. Mat Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, 
Floey, Sara. Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. 
And the old major partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only 
child, I an only child. So it returns. Think you're escaping and run into 
yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home. And just when 
he and she. Circus horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. 
Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's overcoat. Van: bread van delivering. 
Winkle: cockles and periwinkles. Then I did Rip van Winkle cominj 
back. She leaned on the sideboard watching. Moorish eyes. Twenty 
years asleep. All changed. Forgotten. The young are old. His gun 
rusty from the dew. 

Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thin'is 
I'm a tree, so blind. Metempsychosis. They believed you could b: 
c'.ianj?.ed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. There ho 
goes. Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. 
Very likely. Hanging by the heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell 
scared him out, I suppose. Mass seems to be over. Yes, there's the 
light in the priest's house. Their frugal meal. Remember about the 
mistake in the valuation when I was in Thorn's. Twentyeight it is. 
Two houses they have. Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Ba. 
again. Wonder why they come out at night like mice. They're a 
mixed breed. Birds are like hopping mice. What frightens them, 
light or noise? Better sit still. All instinct like the bird in drouth 
got water out of the end of a jar by throwing in pebbles. Like a 
little man in a cloak he is with tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost 
see them shimmering, kind of a bluey white. Colours depend on the 

54 The Little Revie IV 

light you see. Instance, that cat this morning on the staircase. Colour 
of brown turf. Howth a while ago amethyst. Glass flashing. That's 
how that wise man what's his name with the burning glass. Then 
the heather goes on fire. It can't be tourists' matches. What? Per- 
haps the sticks dry rub together in the wind and light. 

Ba. Who knows what they're always flying for. Insects? That 
bee last week got into the room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. 
Birds too never find out what they say. Like our small talk. And 
says she and says he. Nerve they have to fly over the ocean and back. 
Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph wires. Dreadful life sailors 
have too. Big brutes of steamers floundering along in the dark, 
iowjng out like seacows. Faugh a ballagh. Out of that, bloody curse 
to you. Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief sail, pitched about 
like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds do blow. Married too. 
Sometimes away for years at the ends of the earth somewhere. No 
ends really because it's round. Wife in every port they say. She has 
a good job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. If 
ever he does. Smelling the tailend of ports. How can they like the 
sea? Yet they do. The anchor's weighed. Off he sails with a scapular 
or a medal on him for luck. Well? And the tephilim poor papa's 
father had on his door to touch. That brought us out of the land of 
Egypt and into the house of bondage. Something in all those super- 
stitions because when you go out never know what dangers. Hanging 
on to a plank for grim life, lifebelt round round him, gulping salt 
water, and that's the last of his nibs till the sharps catch hold of him. 
Do fish ever get seasick? 

Then you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, 
placid, crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones' locker. Moon 
looking down. Not my fault, old cockalorum. 

A lost long candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in aid 
of funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster 
of violet but one white star. They floated, fell: they faded. And 
among the elms a hoisted lintstock lit the lamp at Leahy's terrace. By 
the screen of lighted windows, by equal gardens a shrill voice went 
crying, wailing: Evening Telegraph, extra edition. Result of the 
Gold Cup races : and from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out 

T h e Lit 1 1 e Re V i e w 55 

and called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over 
the sands the coming surf crept, grey. Howth settled for slumber 
tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was old) and felt 
gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his many ferns. He lay but opened 
a red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but 
awake. And far on Kish bank the anchored lightship twinkled, 
winked at Mr. Bloom. 

Life those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irisli 
Lights board. Penance for their sins. Day we went out in the Erin's 
King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the zoo. Filthy 
trip. Drunkards out to shake up their livers. Puking overboard to 
feed the herrings. And the women, fear of God in their faces. Milly, 
no sign of her funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know 
what death is at that age. And then their stomachs clean. But being 
lost they fear. When we hid behind the tree at Crumlin. I didn't 
want to. Mamma! Mamma! Frightening them with masks too. 
Poor kids. Only troubles wild fire and nettlerash. Calomel purge I 
got her for that. After getting better asleep with Molly. Very same 
teeth she has. What do they love? Another themselves? But the 
morning she chased her with the umbrella. Perhaps so as not to hurt. 
1 felt her pulse. Ticking. Little hand it was: now big. Dearest 
Papli. All that the hand says when you touch. Loved to count m 
w.iist coat buttons. Her first stays I remember. Made mc laugh t ) 
see. Little paps to begin v\'ith. Left one is more sensitive, I thin'c. 
Mine tco. Ne.irer tiie heart. Her growing pains at night, calling, 
wakening me. b rightened she was when her nature came on her first. 
Poor child! Strange moment for the mother too. Brings back her 
girlhood. Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista. O'Hara's tower. 
The seabirds screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his family. 
Sundown, gunfire for the men to cross the lines. Looking out over tlie 
sea she told me. Evening like this, but clear, no clouds. I always 
thought I'd marry a lord or a gentleman with a private yacht. 
Butuns noches, senorita. El nombre ama la muchaha hormosa. Why 
me? Because you were so foreign from the others. 

Better not stick here all night like an oyster. This weather makes 
you dull. Must be getting on for nine by the light. Go home. Too 

56 T h e L i 1 1 1 e R. e V i e to 

late for Leah, Lily of Killarney. No. Might be still up. Call to the 
hospital to see. Hope she's over. Long day I've had. Martha, the 
bath, funeral, house of keys. Museum with those goddesses, Dedalus' 
song. Then that brawler in Barney Kiernan's. Got my own back 
there. Drunken ranters. Ought to go home and laugh at themselves. 
Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be alone like a 
child of two. Suppose he hit me. Look at it. Other way round. 
Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he meant. Three cheers for 
Israel. Three cheers for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three 
fangs in her mouth. Extremely nice cup of tea. Imagine that in the 
early morning Everyone to his taste as Morris said when he kissed 
the cow. But Dignam's put the boots on it. Houses of mourning so de- 
pressing because you never know. Anyhow she wants the money. Must 
call to the Scottish widow's as I promised. Strange name. Takes it for 
granted we're going to pop off first. That widow on Monday 
was it outside Cramer's that looked at me. Buried the poor husband 
but progressing favorably. Well? What do you expect her to do? 
Must wheedle her way along. Widower I hate to see. Looks so forlorn. 
Poor man O'Connor wife and five children poisoned by mussels here. 
The sewage. Hopeless. Some good motherly woman take him in tow, 
platter face and a large apron. See him sometimes walking about 
trying to find out who played the trick. U. p : up. Fate that is. He, 
not me. Also a shop often noticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt 
last night? Wait. Something confused. She had red slippers on. 
Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she does. Would I like her in 
pyjamas? Damned hard to answer. Nannetti's gone. Mailboat. Near 
Holyhead by now. Must hail that ad of Keyes's. Work Hynes and 
Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has something to put in them. 
What's that? Might be money. 

Mr. Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. 
He brought it near his eyes and peered. Letter? No. Can't read. 
Better go. Better. I'm tired to move. Page of an old copybook. 
Never know what you find. Bottle with story of a treasure in it 
thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children always want to throw 

things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters. What's this? 
Bit of stick. 

TheLittleReview 57 

O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she 
come here tomorrow ? Will I ? 

Mr. Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. 
Write a message for her. Might remain. What? 


Some flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Tide comes 
here a pool near her foot. O, those transparent ! Besides they don't 
know. What is the meaning of that other world. I called you naughty 
boy because I do not like. 


No room. Let it go. 

Mr. Bloom effaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing 
sand. Nothing grows in it. All fades. No fear of big vessels coming 
up here. Except Guinness's barges. Round the Kish in eighty days. 
Done half by design. • 

He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. 
Now if you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn't. 
Chance. We'll never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. 
Made me feel so young. 

Short snooze now if I had. And she can do the other. Did too. 
And Belfast. I won't go. Let him. Just close my eyes a moment. 
Won't sleep though. Bat again. No harm in him. Just a few. 

O sweety all your little white I made me do we two naughty dar- 
ling she him half past the bed him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de 
perfume your wife black hair heave under embon senoritayoung eyes 
Mulvey plump bubs me bread van Winkle red slippers she rusty 
sleep wander years dreams return tail end Agendath lovey showed me 
her next year in drawers return next in her next her next. 

A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. 
Mr. Bloom with open mouth, his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, 
breathed. Just for a few. 




The clock on the mantelpiece in the priests' house cooed where 
Canon O'Hanlon and Father Conroy and the reverend John Hughes 
S. J. were taking tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton 

58 T he Lit 1 1 e Review 

chops with catsup and talking about. 

Cuckoo. ^ 


Cuckoo. '' 

Because it was a bird that came out of its little house to tell the 
time that Gerty MacDowell noticed the time she was there because 
sh£ was as quick as anything about a thing, was Gerty MacDowell, 
and she noticed at once that th« foreign gentleman that was 
sitting on the rocks looking was. 




{to be continued) 

^ New Testament 

by Sherivood Anderson 


THE nights in the valley of the Mississippi River have the 
eyes of an owl. I have risen from the place where I 
slept under a tree but cannot shake the sleep out of my 
eyes. The nights in the valley of the Mississippi River 
are staring nights. They look at men with the pupils 
extended. The skies are empty over the cities and the plains. The 
skies have not formulated a thought that I can breathe into my being. 
In the whole valley of the Mississippi River there is no bed of thought 
in which I can lie. 

There are farm women living in houses that stand beside dusty 
roads in Illinois and Iowa. In Indiana and Ohio there are many 
towns. In Michigan — far up where the valley is no more and where 
the cold finger of the north touches the earth in September — there 
are men living who wear heavy boots and fur caps and who walk all 
day under naked trees. 

Everywhere are men and women who arouse wonder in me. I 

The Little Review 59 

have awakened the feeling of wonder in myself. I have awakened 
from sleeping under a tree. 

My walking far out, at the edge of life, is an adventure upon which 
I resolved only after I had kissed with my warm lips the cold fingers 
of death. I am walking in greater and greater circles. Sometimes I 
am afraid. I run crazily in wider and wider circles when I am afraid. 


There was a woman sitting at a desk in an ofKce in Chicago whom 
I went to visit. I told her my feet were cold because I had spent my 
life walking in the bed of a river. I leaned over the desk and peered 
into her eyes. As I remember her she was a small woman with yellow 
hair. As I leaned forward something happened. My lips touched 
her lips. My cheeks touched her cheeks. Her eyes opened and closed 
like the eyes of a cat in a darkened room. Her eyes were like little 
pools into which I threw myself. Like a beaver of the north I had 
built myself a home in the pools. 

"My lips have made many strange words. I have been walking 
since birth in the bed of a river," I said to the woman. 

I must return to the seeking of truth. The woman and I had for 
a long time walked hand in hand. One evening I remember we got 
into a wagon at the edge of a town and rode slowly along through the 
dust of a roadway under a moon. It was in a land where elderberry 
bushes grew by the fences. We stopped by a gate and went into a 
pasture. Cattle stood nearby under a tree. The air was filled with a 
warm milky smell. 

That must have been in September, in the month when the fingers 
of the north play over the fields. 

We went into the field and sat on wet grass. I remember that I 
spoke of John the Baptist. I told her how John sat on a hill all alone 
for a night and a day before he went away into a forest. 

It was quiet in the field when I went there with the woman. "We 
are brothers and sisters," I said, "let us make love." 

My arms grew very hot and the white arms of the woman grew 
hot. Her hand, caressing the grass, touched the back of an insect. 

60 TheLittleReview 

The insect sang madly. 

The insect went into an ecstasy. 

The woman and I came out of the field and departed into a city, 
riding in a wagon that had no springs. I remember that we rode 
under a moon. 

I remember that we rode slowly along under a moon beside corn- 

We came into the streets of a city. 

We came into sleeping streets. 

The people in the houses in the city were asleep. 

We rode in a slow-going wagon in dark streets under the staring 
windows of houses. 

Later I went to the woman dressed as you see me now. I went 
into a building and up a stairway into a room. I leaned over the 
woman's desk as she sat writing words on a sheet of paper. I said 
the words I have put down here in regard to the matter of wading in 

It is my own belief the whole plan was matured in advance. 
It is my own belief I took hold of insanity as, in a crowded city 
street, one takes hold of the hand of a child. 

The incident, however, may have had more significance than that. 

Insanity is a slow moving liquid poured into a cup. 

As you look into the cup your eyes change their colour. 

The liquid is green. 

It is an ultimate blue. 

The liquid is colorless. 

It moves out of the West into the East. 

My notion, I fancy, was to ask the woman a question. I wanted 
to ask if she would drink with me out of the cup. I had no desire to 
take the woman away. I did not want to lift the woman out of her 

I am uncertain of my desires. You have already sensed that. 
Women in farm houses by dusty roads I have traveled, the men of 

T h e Li t tl e Re V i e w 6t 

the north who walk in winter in heavy cloth boots under naked trees, 
all the men and women with whom I have walked and among whom 
I have gone talking of life have been confusing to me. 

I have conceived of life as a bowl into which I am cast. If the 
outer world is inhabited by gods, as I choose to believe it is, it is 
because I am minute and you are minute. 

I cannot keep my footing on the side of the bowl of life. There is 
however no humbleness in me. I constantly strive to reach out. It 
is that makes me seem strange in your sight. If you have heard my 
voice, laughing at the bottom of the bowl, it is because I have an 
ambition to be a flea in God's ear. I have wished to set up a roaring 
in God's head. I have wished to roar of men, women and children I 
have seen walking in the valley of a river. I have wished to remind 
God of my love of my fellows. 

That last statement I fear is a lie. I am not concerned with the 
fate of my fellows. If you think I am you are mistaken about me. I 
am not one who breeds in the beds at night. I am one who walks 
up and down. Breeding does not concern me. I have no motive in 
climbing on the side of the bowl. 

I wonder if my motive in whispering strange words to a woman can 
be explained. I am sure you will see what I am driving at. I am 
wondering if my motive in asking her to drink with me out of the 
cup of insanity had back of it a wholesome desire. 

I have an impulse to be wholesome. 

Did I want to lift her over the side of the bowl. 

Did I want to put my feet on her slender shoulders and leap into 
the arms of a God. 

Did I desire only to get into a quiet darkness. 

Did I wish to create a thought. 

Am I after all one of the brfeeders, one of those who lie in the beds. 

Am I crawling on the side of the bowl with some definite desire 
iisleep in my being. 

{to be continued) 

The Reader Critic 

by F. E. Swan see, JVales: 

I wonder if you are interested in impressions of you as a whole. 
Stimulating, undoubtedly. Pleasant frequently. A tonic, a damn good 
tonic, not so easy to take with laughter, but efficacious. And you are 
always an urge. Life is surely all heyday for you. 

Vincenc Noga, Chicago: 

You have earnestly stated that "every one can save himself nausea 
and suffering by avoiding the artist." Quite so; but how about his unholy 
product? I buy a newspaper to see how many new strikes have hatched 
out over night and, before I have a chance to read a word, a funny cartoon, 
worth $100 or more, is glaring at me. I reside seven miles from the stock- 
yards ( I am a hog scraper). You see, I-cannot avoid riding upon street 
cars, and the interiors of all of them are decorated with things made by 
artists. Judging me by my occupation, you may rightly guess that my 
aesthetic faculties cannot be developed to any radical extent. At my occupa- 
tion I am surrounded with repulsive sights; however, they never inflict upon 
my stomach so much discomfort as the products of "Art" in the street car. 
One can hardly pass a garbage can without noticing at least a magazine 
cover lurking from it. ... '«• 

Hoping that my sincerity shall not provoke your gentle temper, I am 
for curtailing the quantity, and improving the quality of art. 













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Complete notes on all new books related to the drama 

Six articles on how to give drama in the schools, 
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Seven study courses for clubs and lists of plays 
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the church; ^^li^ 

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You Really Should Read These 


' IMargot's book is out and the critics rage over it from pole 
to pole. It deals intimately with every prominent person- 
ality of the last generation " — New York Herald. 

UMBO Aldous Huxley 

"This young man can write Every page twinkle3 and 
sparkles with the most cheerful pessimism " 

— National News. 

Mgorous, sp'eiididly youthful poetry touched with that 
originality which is characteristic of Mi. Huxley's prose 


E. F. Benson 

"The author of "Dodo" is admirably fitted to shoot folly as 
it flies and has a merry time with some of the fads of a 
small community.' — 'Literay Digest. 

LADY LILLITH Stephen McKenna 

"Remarkable and engr^issing pictures of contemporary 
English society." — RicuMONn Times-Dispatch. A heroine 
as strikingly fndividual as Sonia, 

MEN AND BOOKS AND CITIES Robert Cortes Holliday 

"The simplicity of his style, the whimsical imexpectednesa 
of hisupinions, are aliogei her charming " — New York Times 

OUR WOMEN: Chapters on the Sex-Discord Arnold Bennet 

Author of "Clayhanyer" and "The Old Wives' Tale" 
"shrewd enlightened comments of an expert witness on the 
relations of men and women." — New York Post. 






Tuesday afternoon, November 30, at 3 

3econd Recital in January, (Date to be announced later) 
Management Daniel Mayer, Aeoiian Building 

r .- 

Advance in Price 

We have not elected to make the Little Review into a bi-monthly 
or a quarterly, but the hazards and exigencies of running an Art 
magazine without capital have forced us to bring out combined issues 
for the past months. 

Publication has been further complicated by our arrest on Octo- 
ber fourth : Sumner vs. Joyce. Trial, December thirteenth. 

Mr. John Quinn has taken the case for Mr. Joyce. We will give 
a full report of the trial in the Little Review. 

All subscriptions will be extended to cover twelve numbers. 

Begining with the January number the price of the Little 
Review will be advanced to 40 cents per copy. The subscription 
price after that date will be increased to $4.00 a year. Subscribers 
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obtain the present rate. 


The Little Review was the first magazine 'to reassure Europe 
as to America, and the first to give America the tang of Europe. 

Subscription price, payable in advance, in the United States and Territories U 00' 

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'^- Yi 




No. 3 


Else von Freytag-Loringhoven (photograph by Man Ray) 

Art and the Law 

An Obvious Statement 


The Bomb Thrower 


Mask (for "King Hunger") 

The Robin's House 

Photograph of Mina Loy 

Lion's Jaws 

Southern Women 


Discussion : 

The "Others" Anthology 

John Rodker's Frog 


Margaret Anderson 

Charles DeMuth 

Ben Hecht 

Soeurs X . . . 

Herman Rosse 

Djuna Barnes 

Mina Loy 

Stephen Hudson 

Else von Freytag-Loringhoven 

John Rodker 
Mina Lov 

Carlos Williams's "Kora in Hell" Else von Freytag-Loringhoven 
A Note on H. W. Mimms Hart Crane 

(Photographs by Hervey Mimms) 

Other Books 


The Russian Dadaists 

E. Robert Schmitz 

The Art of Marguerite D'Alvarez 

Garden Abstract 
Ulysses (Episode XIV) 
The Reader Critic, 

John Rodker 

Robert McAlmon 

L. Lozoivick 

Margaret Anderson 

Margaret Anderson 

JVyndharn Lewis 

Arthur Winthrop 

Hart Crane 

Carlo Linati 

James Joyce 



Art and the haw 

by jb 

HE heavy farce and sad futility of trying a creative work 
in a court of law appalls me. Was there ever a judge 
qualified to judge even the siropkst psychic outburst? 
How then a work of Art? Has any man not a nincom- 
poop ever been heard by a jury of his peers? 

In a physical world laws have been made to preserve physical 
order. Laws cannot reach, nor have power over, any other realm. 
Art is and always has been the supreme Order. Because of this 
it is the only activity of man that has an eternal quality. Works 
of Art are the only permanent sign that man has existed. What legal 
genius to bring Law against Order! 

The society for which Mr. Sumner is agent, I am told, was 
founded to protect the public from corruption. When asked what 
public'? its defenders spring to the rock on which America was 
founded : the cream-puff of sentimentality, and answer chivalrously 
"Our young girls." So the mind of the young gicl rules this country? 
In it rests the safety, progress and lustre of a nation. One might 
have guessed it. . . . but — why is she given such representa- 
tives? I recall a photograph of the United States Senators, a galaxy 

The Little Review 

of noble manhood that could only have been assembled from far-flun-j 
country stores where it had spat and gossiped and stolen prunes. 

The present case is rather ironical. We are being prosecuted 
for printing the thoughts in a young girl's mind. Her thoughts and 
actions and the meditations which they produced in the mind of the 
sensitive Mr. Bloom. If the young girl corrupts, can she also be 
corrupted? Mr. Joyce's young girl is an innocent, simple, childish 
girl who tends children . . . she hasn't had the advantage of 
the dances, cabarets, motor trips open to the young girls of this more 
pure and free country. 

If there is anything I really fear it is the mind of the young girl. 

I do not understand Obscenity ; I have never studied it nor had 
it, but I know that it must be a terrible and peculiar menace to the 
United States. I know that there is an expensive department main- 
tained in Washington with a v;hief and fifty assistants to prevent its 
spread — and in and for New York we have the Sumner vigilanti. 

To a mind somewhat used to life Mr. Joyce's chapter seems to 
be a record of the simplest, most unpreventable, most unfocused sex 
thoughts possible in a rightly-constructed, unashamed human being. 
Mr. Joyce is not teaching early Egyptian perversions nor inventing 
new ones. Girls lean back everywhere, showing lace and silk stock- 
ings; wear low cut sleeveless gowns, breathless bathing suits; men 
think thoughts and have emotions about these things everywhere — 
seldom as delicately and imaginatively as Mr. Bloom — and no one is 
corrupted. Can merely reading about the thoughts he thinks corrupt 
a man when his thoughts do not? All power to the artist, but this 
is not his function. 

It was the poet, the artist, who discovered love, created the lover, 
made sex everything that it is beyond a function. It is the Mr. Sumners 
who have made it an obscenity. It is a little too obvious to discus? 
the inevitable result of damming up a force as unholy and terrific as 
the reproductive force with nothing more powerful than silence, black 
looks, and censure. 

The Little R e v i e 

"Our young girls" grow up conscious of being possessed, as by 
n devil, with some urge which they are told is shameful, dangerous 
and obscene. They try to be "jiure" with no other incantations than 
a few "obstetric mutterings." 

Mr. Sumner seems a decent enough chap . . , seriou-? and 
colourless and worn as if he had spent his life resenting the caiodons. 
A 100 per cent. American who believes that denial, resentment ivd 
silence about all things pertaining to sex produce uprightness. 

Only in a nation ignorant of the power of Art . . . insensi- 
tive and unambitious to the need and appreciation of Art . 
could such habit of mind obtain. Art is the only thing that produces 
life, extends life — I am speaking beyond physically or mentally. A 
people without the experience of the Art influence can bring forth 
nothing but a humanity that bears the stamp of a loveless race. Fac- 
simile women and stereotyped men — a humanity without distinction 
or design, indicating no more the creative touch than if they were as- 
sembled parts. 

A beautiful Russian woman said to me recently, "How dangc-rwus 
and horrible to fall in love with an American man ! One could never 
tell which one it was — they are all the same." 

There are still those people who are not outraged by the mrn- 
tion of natural facts who will ask "what is the necessity to discuss 
them?" But. that is not a question to ask about a work of Art. 
The only question relevant at all to "Ulysses" is — Is it a work of Art? 
The men best capable of judging have pronounced it a work of the 
first rank. Anyone with a brain would hesitate to question the ne- 
cessity in an artist to create, or his ability to choose the right subject 
matter. Anyone who has read "Exiles," "The Portrait," and 
"Ulysses" from the beginning, could not rush in with talk of obscen- 
ity. No man has been more crucified on his sensibilities than James 

An Obvious Statement 

(for the millionth time) 
by Margaret Anderson 


R. SUMNER is a representative intelligence (I will 
say later what value I put upon the "representa- 
tive"), — a serious, sincere man, very much interested 
in proving his conviction that James Joyce is filthy to 
read and contaminating to those who read him. 

My first point is that Mr. Sumner is operating in realms in 
which it can be proved that he cannot function intelligently, legiti- 
mately, or with any relation to the question which should be up for 
discussion in the court. 

That question is the relation of the artist — the great writer — 
to the public. 

First, the artist has no responsibility to the 
public whatever; but the public should be con- 
scious of its responsibility to him, being mysteri- 
ously and eternally in his debt. 

Second, the position of the great artist is 
impregnable. You can no more destroy him than 
you can create him. You can no more limit his 
expression, patronizingly suggest that his genius 
present itself in channels personally pleasing to 
you, than you can eat the stars. 

I should begin my (quite unnecessary!) defense of James Joyce 
with this statement: I know practically everything that will be 

The Little Review 

said in court, both by the prosecution and the defense. I disagree 
Avith practically everything that will be said by both. 

/ do not admit that the issue is debatable. 

I state clearly that the {quite unnecessary !) defense of beauty 
is the only issue involved. 

James Joyce has never writen anything, and will never be able 
to write anything, that is not beautiful. So that we come to the ques- 
tion of beauty in the Art sense, — that is, to the science of aesthetics, 
the touchstone which establishes whether any given piece of writing, 
painting, music, sculpture, is a work of Art or merely an effort in 
that direction by a man who, however he may wish or work, has 
not been born an artist. 

You will say this brings us to an impasse ; that we now arrive 
at that point where two autocracies of opinion can be established — 
one which says "This is Art" and the other which says "It is not." 
And you will tell me that one is quite as likely to be right as the 
other, — and that therefore every man is thrown back upon his per- 
sonal taste as a criterion, etc. 

I answer: Autocracy"? It is entirely a matter of autocracy of 
opinion. And the autocracy that matters, that can prove itself, as 
against that which cannot, is the only thing we are concerned with 
in this discussion. It is the only thing to be considered in any Art 
discussion, but the last that ever w considered. Why is this? Because 
it never occurs to the Mr. Sumners of the world that Art is a highly 
specialized activity to which they must bring something beyond mere 
knowledge. They are content to approach even without knowledge. 
If Mr. Sumner were asked to judge pearls, for instance, he wouldn't 
dream of expressing an opinion unless he really knew how a good 
pearl must feel to the touch, how it must weigh, what color it must be. 
If he were asked to buy a string of corals for a connoisseur he 
wouldn't undertake the commission unless he knew that Japanese 
corals are more "beautiful" than Italian corals, and that he couldn't 
buy an acceptable string for less than $3,000. In short, unless he 
were a connoisseur he wouldn't be doing these things. 

In Art (and this is the crux of the whole business) one must 

10 T h e L it 1 1 e R e V i e w 

judge with a touchstone beyond even the capacity of the connoisseur. 
It is not the taste, the judgment of connoisseurs that has established 
what are the great works of Art in the world. It is the perception 
of the great artists themselves^ — the judgment of the masters. 

In begininng to talk of this kind of perception, of who are the 
masters, it is necessary to begin with the fundamentals of aesthetics. 
In aesthetics it can be established; 

First, that to a work of Art you must bring 
aesthetic judgment, not moral, personal, nor even 
technical judgment. It is not the human feelings 
that produce this kind of judgment. It is a capa- 
city for art emotion, as distinguished fro?n human 
eniotion, that produces it. 

Second, that only certain kinds of people are 
capable of art emotion {aesthetic emotion). They 
are the artist himself and the critic whose capacity 
for appreciation proves itself by an equal capacity 
to create. 

In an old race of people, like the Hindoos, where the artist is 
protected from the assault of the philistine by as definite a caste 
system as exists in all other phases of Hindu life, the kind of 
thing that will happen to us in a United States court could not take 
place. That civilization is founded on the autocratic recognition of 
certain values, — the artist as the highest manifestation of life; the 
critic who recognizes him ; the philosopher who explains him. An 
autocracy — the recognition of the valuable as against the less valu- 
able, — is the only sound basis for life. Anything else is shameful. 
Anything else means that the exceptional people must suffer with 
the average people, — from the average people. This is the ethics 
of the western world. Nearly everyone believes this to be inevitable, 
— even desirable. Mr. Sumner believes it. He has quoted to me a 
remark of Victor Hugo's to the effect that personal freedom extends 

The Little Review 11 

just to that point where it does not interfere with the personal free- 
dom of another. I have said to him "Mr. Sumner, that is an inepeti- 
tude. There is no thinking in that kind of remark." I don't know 
just where Victor Hugo makes this banal and curiously unthoughtful 
statement. Perhaps he makes it only in connection with physical 
freedom, — in which case it is not entirely senseless. But when a 
good mind begins to reflect on the subject of the more subtle freedoms, 
what does it say? First of all, that there is no such thing as freedom. 
There is only interdependence. And of the little freedoms that can 
he attained or respected, in this great maize of the interdependence 
of all life, let us respect those of the superior people rather than of 
the inferior people. It is far more i7nporta7it that a great artist's 
freedom to write as he pleases he respected than that Air. Sumner's 
freedom to suppress what he does not know to he a ivork of Art he 

Why is there no such autocracy in this country? — why is there 
no caste feeling which makes a man humble before what he does not 
understand — before what he does not know that he does not know — 
rather than confident that he has some special capacity to deal with it ? 
It is because in America every human being, no matter what his 
training, his business, his qualifications, makes some mysterious identi- 
fication of himself with the artist. He says "I love the better things 
of life, I go to concerts and art galleries, I couldn't live without 
these things" — and that is supposed to endow him with some crea- 
tive participation. I can't tell you how many people have said to me : 
"I don't know anything about Art, I couldn't write a poem or com- 
pose a piece of music to save my life, but I know what I like, I have 
a very good critical sense, and I feel the way the artist does." They 
mean that they eat Art, live on it, — go to hear good music in order to 
drown in the emotions it gives them. In America, where the emo- 
tional life has been allowed so few direct outlets, this is what hap- 
pens everywhere. But if this is the way the majority of humanity 
acts, it is not the way the artist acts. And the thing that will puzzle 
me to the end of time is this: You can tell a man who knows a great 
deal about insurance, for instance, that he doesn't know enough 
mechanical engineering to build a bridge, and he doesn't feel insulted. 

12 The Little kevieiv 

But if you tell a plumber, or an engineer, a business man, a lawyer, 
a scholar, a club woman, a debutante, that they are not artists, not 
creators in this special sense, they take it as the deepest insult. Of 
course, I suppose this shouldn't exasperate me. I should take it all 
as the deepest tribute a man can pay to that mysterious phenomenon, 
the artist, with whom he thus identifies his own highest instincts. 
Well, I wouldn't be exasperated ; I could look upon it all as a rather 
charming foolishness, if it weren't for the prosecution of that human 
being whom all mankind in its best moments is trying to impersonate. 
This at least begins the argument. Next month I shall report 
all the blatant ineptitudes of the court proceedings and answer them 
simply, obviously, and patiently, — unless I shall have succumbed in 
the meantime to the general sense of devastating futility which is 
really the only good sense one can hope to preserve in these con- 

To close, I shall quote some passages on the theory that "Beauty 
is a state," from Ananda Coomaraswamy's "Dance of Siva" (pub- 
lished by the Sunwise Turn, New York). The italics are my own. 

"It is very generally held that natural objects such as 
human beings, animals or landscapes, and artificial objects 
such as factories, textiles or works of intentional art, can be 
classified as beautiful or ugly. And yet no general principle 
of classification has ever been found : and that which seems 
to be beautiful to one is described as ugly to another. . . . 
Take, for example, the human type : every race, and to some 
extent, every individual, has an unique ideal. Nor can we 
hope for a final agreement. We cannot expect the European 
to prefer the Mongolian features, nor the Mongolian the 
European. Of course, it is very easy for each to maintain 
the absolute value of his own taste and to speak of other 
types as ugly. ... In like manner the various sects main- 
tain the absolute value of their own ethics. But it is clear 
that such claims are nothing more than statements of preju- 

T h e Lit tl e Re V iew 13 

dice, for who is to decide which racial ideal or which mor- 
ality is 'best' ? It is a little too easy to decide that our own 
is best; zue are at the most entitled to believe it the best for 

"It is the same with works of art. Different artists are 
inspired by different objects ; what is attractive and stimulat- 
ing to one is depressing and unattractive to another, and the 
choice also varies from race to race and epoch to epoch. As 
to the appreciation of such works, it is the same ; for men in 
general admire only such works *as by education or tempera- 
ment they are predisposed to admire. To enter into the spirt 
of an unfamiliar art demands a greater effort than most are 
wiling to make. . . . There are many who never yet 
felt the beauty of Egyptian sculpture or Chinese or Indian 
painting or music. That they have the hardihood to deny 
their beauty, however, proves nothing. 

"And yet there remain philosophers firmly convinced 
that an absolute Beauty {rasa) exists. . . . It is also 
widely held that the true critic {rasika) is able to decide 
which works of art are beautiful (rasavant) and which are 
not. ... It remains then, to resolve the seeming contra- 
dictions. This is only to be accomplished by the use of more 
exact terminology. So far I have spoken of 'beauty' without 
defining my meaning, and have used one word to express a 
multiplicity of ideas. But we do not mean the same thing 
when we speak of a beautiful g;'"l and a beautiful poem ; it 
will be still more obvious that we mean two different things 
if we speak of beautiful weather and a beautiful picture. 
In point of fact, the conception of beauty and the adjective 
'beautiful' belong exclusively to aesthetic and should only be 
used in aesthetic judgment. We seldom make any such 
judgments when we speak of natural objects as beautiful; 
we generally mean that such objects as we call beautiful are 

14 The Little Review 

congenial to us, practically or ethically. Too often we pre- 
tend to judge a work of art in the same way, calling it beau- 
tiful if it represents some form or activity of which we hear- 
tily approve, or if it attracts us by the tenderness or gaiety 
of its colour, the sweetness of its sounds or the charm of its 
movement. But when we thus pass judgment on the dance 
in accordance with our sympathetic attitude toward the 
dancer's charm or skill, or the meaning of the dance, we 
ought not to use the language of pure aesthetic. Only when 
we judge a work of art aesthetically may we speak of the 
presence or absence of beauty, we may call the work 
rasavant or otherwise; but when we judge it from the stand- 
point of activity, practical or ethical, we ought to use a cor- 
responding terminology, calling the picture, song or actor 
'lovely,' that is to say lovable, or otherwise, the action 
'noble,' the colour 'brilliant,' the gesture 'graceful,' or other- 
wise, and so forth. And it will be seen that in doing this w^e 
are not really judging the work of art as such, but only the 
material and the separate parts of which it is made, the activ- 
ities they represent, or the feelings they represent. . . . 

"We should only speak of a work of art as good or bad 
with reference to its aesthetic quality ; only the subject and 
the material of the work are entangled in relativity. In 
other words, to say that a work of art is more or less beau- 
tiful or rasavant, is to define the extent to which it is a work 
of art, rather than a mere illustration. However important 
the element of sj^mpathetic magic in such a work may be, 
however important its practical applications, it is not in these 
that its beauty consists. 

"What then, is Beauty, what is rasa . . . what is 
this sole quality which the most dissimilar works of art 
possess in common. Let us recall the history of a work of 
art. There is ( 1 ) an aesthetic intuition on the part of the 
original artist, — the poet or creator; then (2) the internal 
expression of this intiution, — ^the true creation or vision of 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 15 

beauty, (3) the indication of this by external signs 
(language) for the purpose of communication, — the techni- 
cal activity; and finally (4) the resulting stimulation of the 
critic or rasika to reproduction of the original intuition, or 
to some aproximation to it. 

"The source of the original intuition may, as we have 
seen, be any aspect of life whatever. To one creator the 
scales of a fish suggest a rhythmical design, another is moved 
by certain landscapes, a third elects to speak of hovels, a 
fourth to sing of palaces, a fifth may express the idea that all 
things are enlinked, enlaced and enamoured in terms of 
the General Dance, or he may express the same idea equally 
vividly by saying that 'not a sparrow falls to the ground 
without our Father's knowledge.' Every artist discovers 
beauty and every critic finds it again when he tastes of the 
same experience through the medium of the external signs. 
But where is this beauty? We have seen that it cannot be 
said to exist in certain things and not in others. It may then 
be claimed that beauty exists everywhere, and this I do not 
deny, though I prefer the clearer statement that it may be 
discovered anywhere. If it could be said to exist everywhere 
in a matrial and intrinsic sense, we could pursue it with our 
cameras and scales, after the fashion of the experimental 
psychologists ; but if we did so, we should only achieve a 
certain acquaintance with average taste — we should not dis- 
cover a means of distinguishing forms that are beautiful 
from forms that are ugly. Beauty can never thus be meas- 
ured, for it does not exist apart from the artist himself, and 
the rasika who enters into his experience. 

"The true critic (rasika) perceives the beauty of which 
the artist has exhibited the signs. It is not necessary that 
the critic should appreciate the artist's meaning — every 
work of art is a kamadhenu yielding many meanings — for 

16 T h e Lit tl e Review 

he knows without reasoning whether or not the work is 
beautiful, before the mind begins to question what it is 
'about.' Hindu writers say that the capacity to feel beauty 
{to taste rasa) cannot be acquired by study j but is the re- 
ward of merit gained in a past life; for many good men and 
would-be historians of art have never perceived it. The poet 
is born, not made; but so also is the rasika, whose genius 
differs in degree, not in kind, from that of the original 
artist. . . . 

"The critic, as soon as he becomes an exponent, has to 
prove his case ; and he cannot do this by any process of 
argument, but only by creating a new work of art, the criti- 
cism. His audience, catching the gleam at second hand — but 
still the same gleam, for there is only one — has then the 
opportunity to approach the original work a second time, 
more reverently." 


The Bomb Thrower 

by Ben Hecht 

MEN and women swathed in streets and buildings ; fac- 
tories, avenues, houses and traffic winding them mummy 
fashion. He stood pressed against the wall of a sky- 
scraper. Hatless, imshaven, thin-lipped and with the 
eyes of a frightened girl, he stood watching the people 
in the streets. 

Their movement on the sidewalk in front of him was like the 
play of shadows. He might lose himself in these shadows. His legs 
inside their sogg>- trousers quiverer pleasantly. 

He raised his eyes toward the window-pitted altitudes. A patch 
of sky lay neatly balanced between the roof lines of the street. 
The curious smile of a man saying "yes" without knowing what it 
means loosened his lips. 

He must look at people. Men were moving about in the city 
hunting him. They would come soon and take him away. In the 
meantime he must fill his eyes with the sight of people, of stone 
pavements, of doorways and plate glass windows lettered with gold 
and porcelain. These things constituted freedom. 

Curves of people, blur and drip of people ; why did they seem 
different now? They were slaves and masters — murderous blood- 
sucking rich and sweating back-broken poor. There was this tableau 
in the crowd ; a strong lined terrible cartoon was in the crowd. But 
his eyes or his mind would not clear. He stared in vain. 

The people were like rain on the sidewalk. He watched them 
vanish in gusts before him. He felt frightened at their vagueness. 
Round and round them was the smoke of chimnies, the noise of 
traffic and swirl of buildings. They were wound deep. Legs moved 
under the swathing. Faces wrapped in tons of stone, in miles of 
steel, drifted blindly. Life seemed lost within an effigy. 

He removed a cigarette from his trouser pocket and lighted it, 
stafing at the little pyramid of flame that danced at the end of his 

The Little Review 19 

nose. Eventually the men who were hunting him would come to 
this corner. They would see him against the skyscraper — hatless, 
unshaved, smoking a cigarette. He told himself these things, taking 
pride in their lucidity. Then his lips loosened in the smile again. 

No one was hunting the people on the sidewalk. And yet they 
hurried running this way and that, darting under cars, in and out 
of doorways. While he who was being hunted stood motionless. 
Men were worming their w^ay through the layers of the city like 
bewildered maggots wandering over a mummy case, hunting him. 
When they found him they would become suddenly large. They 
would take him by the wrists, twisting them sharply, and hold him 
among them at the curbing while a crowd gathered and a wagon, 
clanging vividly, came charging out of the traffic. 

He came back to himself. He must deny himself the simplicity of 
fear. If he stepped into the crowd he would begin to run. He 
would run, knocking people over, jumping in and out among cars 
and wagons. His legs quivered pleasantly at the thought and the 
cigarette dried to his lips. It might be better than standing as he was, 
with unfocused thoughts nauseating his brain. Yet he held himself 
from running, his unwashed hands flattened against the cool stone 
of the skyscraper and his fear like the soul of a stranger scurried 
about in his body. 

His thought became a dream that twisted itself before his eyes, 
addressing him with sudden intimate voices. He felt the city like a 
great dice box shaking about him. Men and women rolled and 
rattled out of it into the streets. Standing against the skyscraper he 
could observe the combinations — the changing hieroglyphs of dots. 
Now the city shook out combinations of yellow, blue and lavender 
hats ; luscious curves of women and doubled fists of men swinging 
against the black angles of legs ; faces that seemed like a soiled unrav- 
eling bandage and arrangements of wood and steel that were con- 
tinually turning corners. And now it shook out the sound of laugh- 
ter and the shriek of horns. 

The intimate voices said to him there was no meaning to life. 
He had once been mistaken or perhaps insane. Now he was a man 
recovered from a delirium of mania and finding himself weak and 
ealm in a svjnny pkee, The things that ha4 peopled his mania bi" 

20 The Little Review 

came a distant part of the dream before his eyes, an impossible and 
persisting yesterday. He watched them. There was the high ham- 
mering purpose of ideals that had been in his brain. There was the 
clear lust that had animated him. He had been moving all his 
life in the light of this lust. It had played like a searchlight before 
him, a searchlight on a tableau. Masters and slaves — exploiting, in- 
tolerable tyrants with red faces and definitely-shaped hearts; and 
humanity crucified in factories and slums. These things had been 
plain yesterday. Now they were far away and outside of him in a 

As he filled his eyes with the sight of people the impossible and 
persistent yesterday drifted continually before him as if it no longer 
belonged to the world. The light of faith that had supported this 
yesterday had drained itself out of him. He saw himself stealing 
about through streets with a thing under his coat, entering a 
crowded building and casually hiding the thing under a long stone 
bench on which people were sitting. A few moments later amazing 
things were happening. Windows fell into the street. Walls flew 
through the air. The crowded building into which he had carried 
the thing became a confusion of stone and bricks. 

He watched the yesterday again and saw himself standing on a 
corner with the noise of explosion still in his ears. It had remained 
in his ears as he walked away. He sought now to recapture it. But a 
silence remained. The explosion had been a noise heard by someone 
else. The yesterday in which it had occurred had been a yesterday 
inhabited by someone else. 

From his position pressed against the wall of the skyscraper he, 
the man who had carried the things under his coat, looked upon a 
world in which he had never lived before. The tableau and the 
patterns of yesterday were shuffled together and vanished. The 
philosophy by which he had read into its heart was vanished. Thought 
had become a fantastic shuffle of words, a flood of ink and a flood 
of sound that broke against the movement of crowds and vanished. 

The city stared down at him with its geometrical cloud of 
windows. The streets wound themselves around him and the zigzag 
tumble of his dice played about his feet. Men were prowling through 
the city hunting him, peering into alley ways, ringing door bells, 

The Little Review 21 

searching rooms, questioning scores who had merely known his name. 
They would find him flattened against the wall of the skyscraper 
smoking a cigarette. 

He thought idly of the things he had planned to say with his 
capture. But they were things of another world — masters and slaves, 
dignity of murder, blasting a hole in the fat and purblind conscious- 
ness of the public through which it might see the vision of wrongs and 
crucifixions. The words of the thoughts he had prepared in the 
world that no longer existed lost themselves in the dream before 
his eyes. 

He stared about him. There was something other hunting him 
than the police. A vision hunted him, demanding of him new words 
to give it life. But he could only think with his eyes. With his eyes 
he stared at the vision that had no meaning in his thought — women 
swaying under colored dresses, hips jerking as they moved; men with 
faces lowered, arms swinging as they moved ; women whose faces 
were like lavender corpses — vividly dead things, painted, smeared 
with layers of powder ; women with stiffened faces whose cheeks 
were hardened into tinsel ; faces with sores showing blue and pink 
through a broken enamel ; faces cherubically curved with lips that 
smiled and large, irridescent eyes that gleamed with impudence; faces 
like brooding gestures; old faces — men without teeth and women 
whose jaws quivered and whose eyes shed water; faces twisted out of 
human guise ; faces like little whiskered dogs, cunning, sodden, de- 
formed into vicious grimaces and stamped with enigmatic despairs 
and enigmatic elations; faces of youth — dull, empty, clear-eyed like 
little freshets of water. The vision of faces swept by him like the 
babble of a strange language. Over them were colours of hair, oily 
and rusted colours, blooming with purple, black, red, green and yellow 
hats. They bobbed by him — faces, hair and -hats making queer 
lithographic masks running before his eyes. 

He watched them with an intensity that made him dizzy. Hats 
of men like a stretch of crazily-slanted tiny roofs fled before him and 
remained always present. Lean-handled buildings swelling like great 
clubs at the top, cars clanging and crawling, and the flutter of win- 
dows like a swarm of transfixed locusts, passed into his eyes and left 
his thought blank. There was no meaning to be read in them. 

22 7'he Little Review 

They were a vision for eyes alone. Life hunted the people in the 
street, pursuing them through the windings of pavements and corri- 
dors; an insensate life, like the bay of a galloping hound. Men and 
women in a churn, men and women rolling and rattling out of a 
dice box. There was no other pattern or tableau. 

With the shortened cigarette warming his lips, he remained 
against the wall of the skyscraper. His shoulders had become 
hunched like those of a man stricken with cold. He seemed to have 
withered inside his clothes so that the movements of his body, visible 
at his collarless neck and wrists, were like the rattle of a dead nut 
inside its shell. His coat and trousers hung from him like garments 
heavy with rain, giving him a soggy, voluminous exterior. The 
corkscrew bone of his neck slanted punily like a soft candle out of 
the grimy socket of his collar. His head had fallen forward as if he 
were dozing. 

It was twilight and the signs over the sidewalks popped into 
vision with freshly-kindled lights. Names and slogans spelled them- 
selves against the thin darkness. Commodities, luxuries, trades, food, 
drink novelties and schemes of finance jutted their illuminated scrawls 
over the pavements, stretching in fantastic unrelation down the sides 
of the street. Under them the faces danced. Raising his eyes he 
looked again at the window-pitted altitudes now shot with discs of 
yellow. The patch of sky that had lain neatly balanced above them 
had withdrawn, leaving behind a devouring dark. 

He would not be able to talk to the police as he had planned. 
The men who were hunting him would come soon and drag him away 
from the wall of the skyscraper. His cigarette was long finished. He 
searched idly for another. He began to mumble to himself. Where 
was everybody going? Everywhere in the world they were moving 
like this. He alone wasn't moving. He was not in the hunt. He 
had been mistaken or perhaps insane. There was no tableau but a 
hunt, a running of faces and hats ; a running of legs and bodies 
and jerking hips, 

A hand plucked at his elbow. His body became silent. A 
thought hurried from him like a frightened little dog. The street 
revolved into a blur of hats and windows. His legs inside their 
trousers rattled about. Moments later he recalled having heard a 

The Little Reviev) 23 

voice speaking sharply to him to move on. He remembered having 
been jerked by the elbow into the midst of the throng on the side- 
walk. Move on ! Then they were still hunting him. No one had 
found him. People shot by. The pleasant quivering of his legs 
attracted his attention. They were moving as if springs were shooting 
them upward. They were mounting something. And his arms 
were floating happily. He was running. 

Down the street he ran, a hatless, unshaven figure in flapping 
trousers. His body jumped up and down and his legs moved as if 
they were being blown along. In and out, in and out, past yawning 
yellows of theatres and restaurants, past faces that vanished like 
unfinished words. His mind was at peace. The nausea was drained 
out of it. He was flying. Over cars and under wagons, down curbs 
and up little hills of bodies. Men were hunting him, streaming after 
him with the gallop and bay of hounds. He opened his mouth and 
let out the wildness of his heart. 

a Francis Poulene 



par les 
Soeurs X. . . 

*The author {infant of J should think about eighteen, at any rate can't 
he over tiventy) has managed to satirize french religious instruction, french 
scientific instruction, Brieux and three schools of modern art ivith remarkable 
economy of means. The book is a chef d'oeuvre, — it has all the virtues re- 
quired by the academicians — absolute clarity, absolute form, beginning, 
middle, end. — E. P. 

Que celui d'entre vous qui est sans peche 
lui jette le premiere pierre. — {Jean — viii, 7) 


E nfa nee 

Sa naissance fut sem- 
blable a celle des autres 

C'est pourquoi on la 
nomma Bibi-la-Bibiste. 

(Ceci fut I'enfance de 



Le sang rouge coulait 
dans ses arteres; le sang 
noir coulait dans ses 
veines. ( i ) 

(Telle fut I'adolescence 
de Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 

(1) Cf. Caustier; Anatomie et physiotogie animate et <vegetate<. 



A seize ans, elle travail- 
lait dans un atelier. 

— Ai'e ! mon nez me 
demange s'ecria-t-elle. 

— C'est un vieux qui 
t'aime, repondirent ses 
compagnes, interrompant 
leur chanson. 

Une violente emotion la 
saisit. Son cceur fit volte- 
face dans sa poitrine. 

(Telles furent les amours 
de Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 



Elle sortit. 

Dans la rue populeuse, 
les vieux messieurs pas- 
saient, nombreux. Bibi- 
la-Bibiste les examinait de 
son regard anxieux. Mais 
aucun ne repondit a son 
appel. Un seul lui langa 
un coup d'ceil enflamme, 
et il etait jeune ! 

Ne voulant pas s'oppo- 
ser aux dessiens myste- 
rieux de la Fatalite (1), 
Bibi-la-Bibiste poursuivit 
son chemin. 

( Et ceci f ut la deception 
de Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 

(1) Nous aurions mis "Providence" si le Roman avail ete destine 
a "La Croix." 




Dans un lit d'hopital 
s'eteignit Bibi-la-Bibiste. 
Comme Marie sa patronne, 
comme Jehanne d'Arc, 
elle etait vierge. Mais sa 
fiche portait la mention 

O puissance magique 
d'un regard amoureux!) 

(Et ceci est le dernier et 
le plus tragique chapitre du 
roman de Bibi-la-Bibiste.) 

Cet Ouvrage a ete tire — Cinquante exemplaires 
sur Sirnili Japan, numerotis de 1 a 50 


(Third Starveling, for Andreyev's "King Hunger") 

The Robin s House 

by Djuna Barnes 

IN a stately decaying mansion, on the lower end of the Avenue, 
lived a woman by the name of Nelly Grissard. 
Two heavy rocks stood on either side of the brown stone steps, 
looking out toward the park; and in the back garden a foun- 
tain, having poured out its soul for many a year, still poured, 
murmuring over the stomachs of the three cherubim supporting its 
massive basin. 

Nelly Grissard was fat and lively to the point of excess. She 
never let a waxed floor pass under her without proving herself light 
of foot. Every ounce of Nelly Grissard was on the jump. Her fin- 
gers tapped, her feet fluttered, her bosom heaved; her entire dia- 
phragm swelled with little creakings of whale-bone, lace and taffeta. 

She wore feathery things about the throat, had a liking for deep 
burgundy silks, and wore six petticoats for the "joy of discovering 
that I'm not so fat as they say." She stained her good square teeth 
with tobacco, and cut her hair in a bang. 

Nelly Grissard was fond of saying: "I'm more French than 
human." Her late husband had been French ; had dragged his nation- 
ality about with him with the melancholy of a man who had half- 
dropped his cloak and that cloak his life, and in the end, having 
wrapped it tightly about him, had departed as a Frenchman should. 

There had been many "periods" in Nelly Grissard's life, a 
Russian, a Greek, and those privileged to look through her key-hole 
said even a Chinese. 

She believed in "intuition" but it was always first-hand intui- 
tion ; sue learned geography by a strict system of love affairs — never 
two men from the same part of the country. 

She also liked receiving "spirit messages" — they kept her in toucli 
with international emotion — she kept many irons in the fire and not 
the least of them was the "spiritual" iron. 

Then she had what she called a "healing toueh"- — she eould 

32 The Little Review 

take away headaches, and she could tell by one pass of her hand if 
the bump on that particular head was a bump of genius or of avarice 
— or if (and she used to shudder, closing her eyes and withdrawing 
her hand with a slow, poised and expectant manner) it was the 
bump of the senses. 

Nelly was, in other words, dangerously careful of her sentimen- 
talism. No one but a sentimental woman would have called her 
great roomy mansion "The Robin's House," no one but a sentimen- 
talist could possibly have lived through so many days and nights of 
saying "yes" breathlessly, or could have risen so often from her bed 
with such a magnificent and knowing air. 

No one looking through the gratings of the basement window 
would have guessed at the fermenting mind of Nelly Grissard. Here 
well-starched domestics rustled about laying cool fingers on cool 
fowls and frosted bottles. The cook, it is true, was a little untidy, 
he would come and stand in the entry, when spring was approaching, 
and look over the head of Nelly Grissard's old nurse, who sat in a 
wheel-chair all day, her feeble hands crossed over a discarded rug of 
the favorite burgundy color, staring away with half-melted eyes into 
the everlasting fountain, while below the cook's steaming face, on a 
hairy chest, rose and fell a faded holy amulet. 

Sometimes the world paused to see Nelly Grissard pounce down 
the steps, one after another, and with a final swift and high gesture 
take her magnificent legs out for a drive, the coachman cracking his 
whip, the braided ribbons dancing at the horses' ears. 

And that was about all — no, if one cared to notice, a man, in the 
early forties, who passed every afternoon just at four, swinging a 
heavy black cane. 

This man was Nicholas Golwein — half Tartar, half Jew. 

There was something dark, evil and obscure about Nicholas 
Golwein, and something bending, kindly, compassionate. Yet he 
was a very Jew by nature. He rode little, danced less, but smoked 
great self-reassuring cigars, and could out-ponder the average fidgety 
American by hours. 

He had travelled, he had lived as the "Romans lived," and had 
sent many a hot-eyed girl back across the fields with something to 
forget or remember, according to her nature. 

The Little Review 33 

This man had been Nelly Grissard's lover at the most depraved 
period of Nelly's life. At that moment when she was coloring her 
drinking water green, and living on ox liver and "testina en broda," 
Nicholas Golwein had turned her collar back, and kissed her on 
that intimate portion of the throat where it has just left daylight, yet 
has not barely passed into the shadow of the breast. 

To be sure Nelly Grissard had been depraved at an exceedingly 
early age, if depravity is understood to be the ability to enjoy what 
others shudder at, and to shudder at what others enjoy. 

Nelly Grissard dreamed "absolutely honestly" — stress on the ab- 
solutely — when it was all the fashion to dream obscurely, — she could 
sustain the conversation just long enough not to be annoyingly bril- 
liant, she loved to talk of ancient crimes, drawing her stomach in, and 
bending her fingers slightly, just slightly, but also just enough to 
make the guests shiver a little and think how she really should have 
been born in the time of the Cenci. And during the craze for Gau- 
guin she was careful to mention that she had passed over the same 
South Sea roads, but where Gauguin had walked she had been carried 
by two astonished donkeys. 

She had been "kind" to Nicholas Golwein just long enough 
to make the racial melancholy blossom into a rank tall weed. He 
loved beautiful things, and she possessed them. He had become used 
to her, had "forgiven" her much (for those who had to forgive at all 
had to forgive Nelly in a large way), and the fact that she was too 
fluid to need one person's forgiveness long drove him into slow bitter- 
ness and despair. 

The fact that "her days were on her," and that she did not 
feel the usual woman's fear of age and dissolution, nay, that she even 
saw new measures to take, and a fertility that only can come of a 
decaying mind, drove him almost into insanity. 

When the Autumn came, and the leaves were falling from the 
trees, as nature grew hot and the last flames of the season licked high 
among the branches, Nicholas Golwein's cheeks burned with a dull 
red, and he turned his eyes down. 

Life did not exist for Nicholas Golwein as a matter of day and 
after day — it was flung at him from time to time as a cloak 15 flung 
a flunkey, arid this made him proud, morose, silent. 


34 T h e L it tl e Re V i ew 

Was it not somehow indecent that, after his forgiveness and 
understanding, there should be the understanding and forgiveness of 

There was undoubtedly something cruel about Nelly Grissard's 
love; she took at random, and Nicholas Golwein had been the most 
random, perhaps, of all. The others, before him, had all been of her 
own class — the first had even married her, and when she finally drove 
him to the knife's edge had left her a fair fortune. Nicholas Golwein 
had always earned his own living, he was an artist and lived as 
artists live. Then Nelly came — and went — and after him she had 
again taken one of her own kind, a wealthy Norwegian — Nord, a 
friend of Nicholas. 

Sometimes now Nicholas Golwein would go off into the country, 
trying to forget, trying to curb the tastes that Nelly's love had nour- 
ished. He nosed out small towns, but he always came hurriedly back, 
smelling of sassafrass, the dull penetrating odor of grass, contact with 
trees, half-tamed animals. 

The country made him think of Schubert's Unfinished Sym- 
phony — he would start running — running seemed a way to complete 
all that was sketchy and incomplete about nature, music, love. 

"Would I recognize God if I saw him?" the joy of thinking 
such thoughts was not everyman's, and this cheered him. 

Sometimes he would go to see Nord ; he was not above visiting 
Nelly's lover — in fact there was that between them. 

He had fancied death lately. There was a tremendously sterile 
quality about Nicholas Golwein's fancies, they were the fancies of 
a race, and not of a man. 

He discussed death with Nord — before the end there is some- 
thing pleasant in a talk of a means to an end, and Nord had the cold- 
ness that makes death strong. 

"I can hate," he would say, watching Nord out of the corner 
of his eye; "Nelly can't, she's too provincial — " 

"Yes, there's truth in that. Nelly's good to herself — what more 
is there?" 

"There's understanding," he meant compassion, and his eyes 
filled. "Does she ever speak of me?" 

It was begining to rain. Large drops struqk softly against 


T h e L it 1 1 e R e V i e w 35 

the cafe window and thinning out ran down upon the sill. 

"Oh yes." 

"And she says?" 

"Why are you never satisfied with what you have, Nicholas?" 

Nicholas Golwein turned red. "One dish of cream and the cat 
should lick his paws into eternity. I suppose one would learn how 
she felt, if she feels at all, if one died." 

"Why, yes, I suppose so." 

They looked at each other, Nicholas Golwein in a furtive man- 
ner, moving his lips around his cigar — Nord absently, smiling a little, 
"Yes, that would amuse her." 

"What?" Nicholas Golwein paused in his smoking and let his hot 
eyes rest on Nord. 

"Well, if you can manage it — " 

Nicholas Golwein made a gesture, shaking his cufiF-links like a 
harness — "I can manage it" he said, wondering what Nord was 

"Of course it's rather disgusting," Nord said. 

"I know, I know I should go out like a gentleman, but there's 
more in me than the gentleman, there's something that understands 
meanness, a Jew can only love and be intimate with the thing that's 
a little abnormal, and so I love what's low and treacherous and cun- 
ning, because there's nobility and uneasiness in it for me — well," he 
flung out his arms — "If you were to say to Nell, he hung himself 
in the small hours, with a sheet — what then? Everything she had 
ever said to me, been to me, will change for her — she won't be able to 
read those French journals in the same way, she won't be able to 
swallow water as she has always swallowed it. I know, you'll say 
there's nature and do you know what I'll answer: that I have a con- 
tempt for animals — just because they do not have to include Nelly 
Grissard's whims in their means to a living conduct — well listen, I've 
made up my mind to something" — he became calm all of a sudden 
and looked Nord directly in the face. 


"I shall follow you up the stairs, stand behind the door, and 
you shall say just these words 'Nicholas has hung himself." 

"And then what?" 


36 TheLittleReview 

"That's all, that's quite sufficient — then I shall know everything. 

Nord stood up, letting Nicholas open the cafe door for him. 

"You don't object?" Nicholas Golwein murmured. 

Nord laughed a cold, insulting laugh. "It will amuse her — " 

Nicholas nodded, "Yes, we've held the coarse essentials between 
our teeth like good dogs — " he said, trying to be insulting in turn, 
but it only sounded pathetic, sentimental. 

Without a word passing between them, on the following day, 
they went up the stairs of Nelly Gissard's house, together. The 
door into the inner room was ajar, and Nicholas crept in behind this, 
seating himself on a little table. 

He heard Nord greet Nelly, and Nelly's voice answering — "Ah 
dear" — he listened no further for a moment, his mind went back, 
and he seemed to himself to be peaceful and happy all at once. "A 
binding up of old sores" he thought, a oneness with what was good 
and simple — with everything that evil had not contorted. 

"Religion," he thought to himself, resting his chin on his hands — 
thinking what religion had meant to all men at all times, but to no 
man in his most need. "Religion is a design for pain — that's it." 
Then he thought, that, like all art, must be fundamentally against 
God— God had made his own plans — well, of that later — 

Nelly had just said something — there had been a death-like 
silence, then her cry, but he had forgotten to listen to what it was 
that had passed. He changed hands on his cane. "There is someone 
in heaven" he found his mind saying. The rising of this feeling was 
pleasant — it seemed to come from the very centre of his being. 
"There's someone in heaven — who?" he asked himself, "who?" but 
there was no possible answer that was not blasphemy. 

"Jews do not kill themselves — " 

Nelly's voice. He smiled — there was someone in heaven, but 
no one here. "I'm coming" he murmured to himself — and felt a sen- 
suous giving away in the promise. 

His eyes filled. What was good in death had been used up 
long ago — now it was only dull repetition — death had gone beyond 
the need of death. 

Funnily enough he thought of Nelly as she was that evening 


T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 37 

when she had something to forgive. He had pulled her toward him 
by one end of a burgundy ribbon, "Forgive, forgive," and she had 
been kind enough not to raise him, not to kiss him, saying "I forgive" 
— she just stood there showing her tobacco-stained teeth in a strong 
laugh, "Judas elimininated." He put his hand to his mouth, "I have 
been There," and There seemed like a place where no one had ever 
been. How cruel, how monstrous! 

Someone was running around the room, heavy, ponderous. "She 
always prided herself on her lightness of foot," and here she was 
running like a trapped animal, making little cries "By the neck!" — 
strange words, horrifying — unreal — 

"To be a little meaner than the others, a little more crafty" — 
well, he had accomplished that too. 

Someone must be leaning on the couch, it groaned. That took 
him back to Boulogne, he had loved a girl once in Boulogne, and 
once in the dark they had fallen, it was like falling through the sky, 
through the stars, finding that the stars were not only one layer thick, 
but that there were many layers, millions of layers, a thickness to 
them, and a depth — then the floor — that was like a final promise of 
something sordid, but lasting — firm. 

Sounds rose from the streets, automobiles going up town, horses' 
hoofs, a cycle siren, that must be a child, long drawn out, and pierc- 
ing — yes, only a child would hold on to a sound like that. 

"Life is life," Nelly had just said, firmly, decisively. After all 
he had done this well — he had never been able to think of death long, 
but now he had thought of it, made it pretty real — he remembered 
sparrows, for some unknown reason, and this worried him. 

"The line of the hips, simply Renoir over again — " 

They were on the familiar subject of art. 

The sounds in the room twittered about him like wings in a 
close garden, w^here there is neither night nor day. "There is a 
power in death, even the thought of death, that is very terrible and 
very beautiful — " His cane slipped, and struck the floor. 

"What was that?" the voice of Nelly Grissard was high, excited, 
startled — 

"A joke." 

Nicholas Golwein suddenly walked into the room. 

38 The Little Review 

"A joke," he said and looked at them both, smiling. 

Nelly Grissard, who was on her knees, and who was holdin;^ 
Nord's shoe in one hand, stared at him. It seemed that she must 
have been about to kiss Nord's foot. 

Nicholas Golwein bowed, a magnificent bow, and was about 
to go. 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself" Nelly Grissard cried, 
angrily, and got to her feet. 

He began to stammer: "I — I am leaving town — I wanted to 
pay my respects — " 

"Well, go along with you — " 

Nicholas Golwein went out, shutting the door carefully behind 


Lions' Jaws 

by Mina Loy 

FAR away on the Benign Peninsular 

That automatic fancier of lyrical birds 
Danriel Gabrunzir 
with melodious magnolia 
perfumes his mis-en-scene 
where impotent neurotics 
wince at the dusk 

40 The Little Review 

The national arch-angel 


several countesses 

in a bath full of tuberoses 

soothed by the orchestra 

at the 'Hotel Majestic Palace' 

the sobbing 
from the psycho-pathic wards 
of his abandoned harem 
purveys amusement for 'High Life' 

The comet conquerer 

show^ers upon continental libraries 

translated stars 

accusations of the alcove 


with a pomaded complaisance 

he trims rococco liasons 

. a tooth-tattoo of an Elvira 
into a Maria's flesh 

And every noon 

bare virgins riding alabaster donkeys 

receive Danriel Gabrunzio 

from the Adriatic 

in a golden bath-towel 

signed with the zodiac 

in pink chenille 

Defiance of old idolatries 
inspires new schools 

Danriel Gabrunzio's compatriots 
concoct new courtships 
to intrigue 

T h e Li 1 1 le Review 41 

the myriad-fleshed Mistress 
of "the Celebrated" 

The antique envious thunder 

of Latin litterateurs J 

rivaling Gabrunzio's satiety 

burst in a manifesto 

notifying women's w^ombs 

of Man's immediate agamogenesis 

of his spiritual integrity 
against the carniverous courtesan 

of the flabbergast movement 
hurled by the leader Raminetti 
to crash upon the audacious lightening 
of Gabrunzio's fashions in lechery 
. . . and wheedle its inevitable way 
to the "excepted" woman's heart 
her cautious pride 
extorting betrayal 
of Woman wholesale 
to warrant her surrender 
with a sense of . . . Victory 


cracked the whip of the circus-master 

astride a prismatic locomotive 

ramping the tottering platform 

of the Arts 

of which this conjuring commercial traveller 

imported some novelties from 

Paris in his pocket 

souvenirs for his disciples 

to flaunt 

at his dynamic carnival 

The erudite Bapini 

42 TheLittleReview 


in auto-hypnotic God-head 

an a mountain 

rolls off as Raminetti's plastic velocity 

explodes his crust 

of library dust 

and hurrying threatening nakedness 

to a Vermillion ambush 

in flabbergastism 

. . . he kisses Raminetti 

full on his oratory 

in the arena 

rather fancying Himself 

in the awesome proportions 

of an eclectic mother-in-law 

to a raw menage. 

Thus academically chaperoned 

the flabbergasts 

blaze from obscurity 

to deny their creed in cosy corners 

to every feminine opportunity 

and Raminetti 

anxious to get a move on this beating-Gabrunzio-business 

possesses the women of two generations 

except a few 

who jump the train at the next station . . . 

. . . while the competitive Bapini 

publishes a pretty comment 

involving woman in the plumber's art 

and advertises 

his ugliness as an excellent aphrodisiac 

Shall manoeuvres in the new manner ! 

pass unremarked? 

• • • "" 

These amusing men 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e Re V i e w 43 

discover in their mail 

duplicate petitions 

to be the lurid mother of "their" flabbergast child 

from Nima Lyo, alias Anim Yol, alias 

Imna Oly 

(secret service buffoon to the Woman's Cause) 

While flabbergastism boils over 
and Ram : and Bap : 
avoid each other's sounds 
This Duplex-Conquest 
claims a "sort of success" 
for the Gabrunzio resisters. 



Raminetti gets short sentences 

for obstructing public thoroughfares 

Bapini is popular in "Vanity Fair" 

As for Imna Oly 

I agree with Mrs. Krar Standing Hail 

She is not quite a lady. 

Riding the sunset 


the lewd precocity 

of Raminetti and Bapini 

with his sonorous violation of Fiume 

and drops his eye 

into the fatal lap 

of Italy. 

Southern IVomen 

by Stephen Hudson 

I PAUSED a moment at the corner and looked down the line 
of acacia trees. Their leaves were rustling, rhythmically it 
struck me, very softly One, two, three, it would be about 
the fifth tree, there were three steps. If she were sitting there, 
I might be passing and stop to speak. If not, well, if not . . . 
I could see the white mass of the Capitol, faint voices reached me, 
singing. It was a steaming hot night. I took out my handkerchief 
and wiped my forehead, glad I remembered to scent it. My breath 
came irregularly, something between the lower part of my chest and 
my throat fell and rose, alternately opening and blocking the channel. 
It was very absurd that I couldn't stop it, I could stop it by turning 
round and walking the other way. But I wanted to see her tre- 
mendously, to hear her voice, breathe her air. Annabel. Annabel 
and Mary Lee. Hadn't I read . . .? I got as far as the third 
tree and stopped again, looking. It was light still, beastly light. 
And the party on the stoop to my right were watching me. Some- 
body laughed. I sweated, took out my handkerchief again, crossed 
the street nonchalantly. I walked on very slowly. They were both 
there and a man. Spurr! What a piece of luck. 

"Come right up, Mr. Lane, won't yew. Mr. Spurr. Mr. Lane 
from London. Yewer from London, Mr. Lane, aren't yew? Isn't 
it haat? Gee, — where's my fan. Jack? Come an' sett raaght here, 
Mister Lane. Now, altogether. Away down South in Dixie land." 
She waved her hand, Spurr picked two or three times at the 
strings, the three joined in, she smiled down on me. Fancy it's being 
as easy as that. Jessie, Emma Joe, Frank Fogg, Burton Trent. Up 
and down the steps, some with cushions, some without. I kept my 
seat below Annabel, it was twilight, her gold slipper was on my 
step, the tip very near my leg, it was under my leg. "We'll hang 
John Brown on a sour apple tree." The little toes moved up and 
down in time to the singing. 

T h e Lit 1 1 e Re V i e w 45 

It was dusk. Spurr and Mary Lee had disappeared. Singing 
ceased. Someone proposed the drugstore and ice cream soda. We 
trailed along in couples. We were alone. How d'yew like Nash- 
ville, Mr. Lane? So that's the soft Southern voice. It is soft. She 
wore a light veil round her blondined hair, curved her head down 
and looked up. I had known no girls. Ought I to try . . . too 
soon . . , Nashville is fascinating . . . she knows that 
word, they use it a lot. D'yew mean that? D'yew like the gurls 
How can you ask, how could one, how could I, . . 

Now, Mister Lane, but isn't he just sweet . . . How's Nancy 
Bright? D'yew know, I knew Nancy Bright when I was ever so 
little . . . sweet she waas . . , and to think she's your ant 
Pressure on my arm. I hold hers close. She bends her 
head down and up again and smiles, lovely teeth in the moonlight. 
We all meet at the corner drugstore with its soda fountain and 
man in white jacket to tend it. What's yours? Isn't that just 
lovelly? Goodbyes at the door, Frank Fogg has organised a party to 
drive to the Gap tomorrow. Won't that be lovelly? 

We walk back as before, we linger at a side avenue, how far 
can I go? There seems to be nothing to say. What do the others 
talk about? I continue to press her arm, we reach the steps; to- 
morrow at eleven. Won't it be lovelly? The downward bend of 
the head. Goodnight, Mister Lane. 

Are they all looks, these Southern women? What does one 
say to them? And if I say No, it is as though I said Yes. There is, 
then, no meaning in words for them. She bends her head, she shows 
her teeth, her legs. What would I say if I were older and knew 
all about women everywhere? Where is my fear of tonight? Where 
is my caring of tonight? Left at the drug-store in the ice-cream 

My steps led me to the Capitol. A group of negroes singing 
under the moon. Must have been there for hours, for I heard their 
voices faintly all the evening. How well they sing in chorus, here 
and there a banjo, a concertina. At the end of the half circle, a 
large woman with a coloured handkerchief on her shoulders looks 
at me meaningly. I sit on the parapet near her, looking back at 

46 TheLittleReview 

Carry me back to ole Tennessee, the voices drone out into the still 
night in perfect ryhthm. She moves away slowly. I can see her 
standing in the shadows. None of them seems to notice. I follow 
her. She walks on, faster now. She leaves the main streets and 
turns up a narrow one, lighted rarely. She stops and waits for me. 

"Yewse cummin' with me, honey?" 

I nod. 

A shack of a house. I forbade her to light the lamp. She cast 
her garment from her. I bade her stand where the moonlight could 
search and expose the beauty of her body half in shadow. I made 
her stand there and drank in the beauty of her bronze body. I gave 
her five dollars to stand there for five minutes and then I went 
my way. 

Tomorrow I shall drive with Annabel and she will say, 

"Isn't Nashville lovelly, Mr. Lane?" 


by Else von Freytag-Loringhoven 

Appalling Heart 

CITY stir — wind on eardrum — 
dancewind : herbstained — 
flowerstained — silken — rustling — 
tripping — swishing — frolicking — 
courtesing — careening — brushing — 
flowing — lying down — bending — 
teasing — kissing : treearms — grass — 
limbs — lips. 

City stir on eardrum — . 
In night lonely 

peers — : J 

moon — riding! P?^ 

pale — with beauty aghast — ~ \ 

too exalted to share ! 

in space blue — rides she away from mine chest — 
illumined strangely — 
appalling sister! 

Herbstained — flowerstained — 

shellscented — seafaring — 

foresthunting — junglewise — 

desert gazing — 

rides heart from chest — 

lashing with beauty — 

a fleet — 

across chimney — 

tinfoil river 

to meet 

another's dark heart ! 

Bless mine feet ! 

48 T h e Lit tl e Review 

B las t 

TAKE spoon — scapel — 
Scrape brains clear from you- 
how it hurts to be void! 
blast flew 
over twin hillocks 

singeing — seering satanic stink — 
flew — blew — 
blushroses ! 
barren grew — 
to you — 
sharp : 

pointed pyramids 
silence — d rums — 
— sphinx — 
I smother — 
pranked mother — 
from stark things! ! ! 
stark kings in rockchamber 
mockeye set amber 
within mine chest! ! ! 
to rest — 

ripple — glide — quiver : 
river ! 
overflow ! 
hillocks inundated 

blush ■ 


on twin hillocks '' ■ ' 

smaragd isle ! ? 

awhile — awhile — ! ' 

T h e L it 1 1 e Re V i e w 49 

M on s ton e 

LAKE — palegreen — shrouded — 
skylake — clouded — shrouded — 
yearning — blackblue — 
sickness of heart — ^ 

pomgranate hue — 
sickness of longing — 



In cloud — nay — ach — shroud — 

nay — ach — shroud — ! 

of — breast — 

sickness of longing 


pomegranate hue 

from heart in chest — 

palegreen lake in chest ! 

— you! 

(Dance of Shiva) 

AROUND me hovers presence that thou art, 
secretly atmosphere draws cloudy — dense — 
perfume athwart mine cheekbone swings intense- 
smile on mine lip — 
I kiss thee — 
with mine heart! 

Ja — with mine heart — 

that can perform fine tricks 

since it is housed with wizzardry and art — ! 

soul — how enchanted art thou — 

by such heart! ! 

Ho! — lover far — : 

50 T h e L it tl e Re V i ew 

C ath edral 

WHY didst thou go away from me? 
Say — why ? 
art not enslaved by balmy wizzardry 
out of mine jewelled eye? 
not by mine lips — so softly passionate — 
so passionately soft 
with harnessed strength — 
in bridled strain — 

musk — amber — myrrh and francincense— 
gold — damask — ivory — 
mine gothic cathedral — 
is that upbuild in vain 
for thee — ? 
the whom I shall desire — 
to pray? 
art nor thou worshipper nor devotee? 

Thus stand I desolate — 

priest to mine tarnished self — 

light tapers stately — upon jadeworsted shelf — 

not to decay. 

Is It? 

IT is — is it — ? 
heart white sheet! 
kiss it 
flame beat! 
in chest midst 
print teeth 

bite • 

this green 
ponderous night. 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e Re V iew 51 

Gihirda 'J' Dance 

NOSE straight 
smile flower 
unfolding in sun of love. 
Petals: large — sweet 

overwhelming cinnamon-scented — almond — sandal — rose-carmine — 

cheekpale in ray of moon torch 

ghosts — with strength of ghosts — enticing as passion in graveyard of 
flesh dead — 

— alive 


Hands cupped in greed of tissues parched — 
owner's wolfheart — ! 
devotion simple as child's suckled — 
eyes of god drink out of tankard 

of palm mine face's palegold champagne. 
Whereas now thine polar-bear's sinister ivorywhite mouth black — 
black lips cruel tender pluck 
purple black in face white — 
Tremble — ? 
not weep — ! 
I — thou. 

Tombstone — lie I beneath 
weight — passionate weight — 
pallor — ! 
not life shall call 
from stoneheaviness' 
encompassing weight. 
Eyes of god drain from veins cinnamonscented rosedisks carmine: 

to blend — 
thou — I. 

No move — ! 

from mine thine cheek not part 

dual rock — on Nile — rigid: 

52 T he Little Review 

sough ! 

Heart stripped — men approach — 

tinkling rhythm — bells — howling — 

draft — eternit}' — 

silence of void — earsplitting — 

movement — 

dance — 

Gihirda's dance. 

Das Fin s ter e Meer 
(an Vate7^) 

WIR fuhren am finstern Strande 
Der Himmel hing wollcenschwer 
Die Wellen rollten zum Lande 
Und rannen zuriick in das Meer 
Gurgelnd brach sich das Wasser 
Am Tang und am Muschelsaum 
Die Muscheln schimmerten blasser 
Als Kirchenbliiten am Baum 
Durchdringe und leise klagend 
Schrillte der Move schrei 
Ueber die Wellen jagend 
Fegte sie blitzend vorbei. 

Meine verschiittete Seele 

Mochte schreien wie sie 

In ihrer heiseren Keh'e " ': 

Pfiflt des Orkans melodie. 

Warum meines Herzens Gedanken 
Mogt ihr nicht blitzen wie sie 
O warum tramen und kranken 
Mit dem Feind am Knie. 



Margaret Anderson 

Foreign Editors: 

John Rodker Jules Romains 

Advisory Board 


The ^^ Others'' Anthology 
by John Rodker 

OTHERS," after various phases, has now achieved a 
second anthology which appears to have settled into 
that steady poetical jog-trot, the "townsman's guide 
to nature," known as Georgian poetry. It is therefore not unfitting 
that Conrad Aiken should start this plump ball rolling with a "Con- 
versation: Undertones" which is part Hueffer's "To all the Dead," 
part Eliot's "Portrait of a Lady," but in form so incredibly faded, 
so emasculated (must the Athenaeum now set the tone of "Others"), 

54 The Little Review 

while the rare words, the mock poetical images, the detritus of every 
poet that has ever been, are worked into an owl's pellet. If Mr. 
Aiken had control of his emotion, if he had clearness, if his borrowed 
images were not continually ruined by manhandling, the "Portrait 
of One Dead" would be a fine poem. Something it undoubtedly has, 
but his smooth metres are such as lull the reader into an unquestioning 

"Your words were walls which suddenly froze round her 
Your words were windows — large enough for moonlight." 

— how thin all this is, yet how exquisitely it has the colour of poetry: — 

"or through windy corridors of darkening end." 

whatever that may mean. 

Carnevali's feelings are as yet too personal for them to get 

When are we to have done with this eternal cinema which is 
what most America poetry now seems to be. Surely Scribner's is the 
place for H. L. Davis anyhow. 

Donald Evans has the magnificent soul of a poet — could he only 
write ! 

"In which room shall it be tonight — darling? 
His eyes swept the broad facade, the windows 
Tier upon tier and his lips were regnant: 
In every room, my beloved !" 

Frost out of Georgian Poetry is now in "Others," His stuff is 
at any rate felt, he has a reserve worth expressing, but why it should 
be poetry — God knows! Masters still influences, 

Giovanitti is also too much occupied by a myriad influences to be 
able to sustain his prison biography. 

Gould calls the snowflakes "oblivious white nuns," He also calls 
the night a "vast unlighted church," My God! ! 

Marsden Hartley's cinematographies are abominable. The pal- 
triest film has more guts. All these folks seem to think poetry is a 

TheLittleReview 55 

polite after dinner amusement like musical chairs. (Perhaps it is in 

Or rick Johns's cinema play "Kysen" is at least in colours and has 
beauty and he has made images. 

Fenton Johnson is spoonrivering with a vengeance. More blood, 
less guts ; but why must every American wagon be hitched to a star. 
In "Tired" the worst lines, apart from their irrelevance, are: 

Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars 
mark our destiny. The stars marked my destiny. 

Kreymborg's poetry is still a succession of afterthoughts. With 
Vachel Lindsay's "Daniel Jazz" it is obvious that "Others" has now 
made up its mind to find a "place in the sun." And indeed it is time 
Kreymborg had a competence. A community should be satisfied 
when it has got all it can out of the first thirty years of a man's life. 
After that it should give him what he most wants — money, fame, 
leisure, women, etc. 

Haniel Long's students are good little vignettes — but they would 
have been equally good in prose and perhaps not then so rich in anti- 

When he looms in the rear of the room 
like a peak in the Andes 

the lines following: — 

but how would you like to teach 
a peak in the Andes 

are indubitably a mistake. Number 5, 6, 15 are good vignettes. 

Mina Loy appears to be the only poet in this bag who is really 
preoccupied with that curious object THE SOUL. It is painful 
to notice that since the last "Others" she appears to have lost grip. 
Nor is she less guilty in the matter of "that little afterthought" than 
her confreres. Her effort is however very much more distinguished. 

The same is true of Marianne Moore, whose really very rich 
pyramids are, I now think, a quite sufficient justification, though bits 
of the plaster are sadly trivial. 

56 The Little Review 

my soul shall 


be cut into 

by a wooden spear. 

"The Fish" is the best poem in the anthology because it has been 
felt more and worked at more; by a more original mind. 

Lola Ridge! ! ! 

Sanborn : a description of a fight and is it believable without 
one seen adjective — one illuminating phrase. Simply a pastiche of 
every sporting description speeded up. 

M. A. Seiffert and Evelyn Scott! ! ! 

Wallace Stevens's new poems do not interest me as much as 
his last, but the "Exposition of the Contents of a Cab" is by its close- 
ness and formality a model for all the inventories in this book. 

Williams's "Herbarium" seems to me uninteresting. It is a 
detailed inventory of various herbs, but they are in no way linked 
to life. I would condemn him to silence when he is not writng poems 
like "Spring-Strains" which is, for a variety of reasons, the best 
American poem I know. 

It would seem then that the most difficult thing for a Georgian 
poet is to say something when he has nothing to say. There is cer- 
tainly a distinct falling off in the quality of the "Others." True, most 
anthologies behave similarly. 

John Rodkers Fj^og 
by Mina Loy 


HERE did I hear of two smooth frogs 
clasped among rushes 
in love and death" . . . 

Where indeed ! But perhaps to be loved like a frog is the best 
way to be loved by Mr. Rodker, so after all the lady addressed on 

*"I'd have loved you as you deserved had we been frogs." Hymns, by 
John Rodker. The Ovid Press. 

The Little Review 57 

page 24 of "Hymns"* probably got all she deserved. 

And here in the Little Review we have Rodker playing frog 
to America — ^no wonder he is impressed by Donald Evans "In every 
room, my beloved !" — and a little jealously wishes he could only write 
— no fun being beaten at both games. 

On the other hand had he his way with Marsden Hartley he 
would put guts into "film," and even demands guts of Spoonriver 
but why must every American wagon be hitched to Mr. 
Rodker's guts? 

From Orrick Johns he takes his "least" in colours, from Fenton 
Johnson "the worst lines apart from their irrelevance." 

He objects to Carlos Williams shouting while he writes "Her- 
bariums" — my! we have good ears in England, — while he cannot 
understand how the end of a corridor should look dark; his eyes 
being less efficient than his ears; cinematographs tire him. 

Our cousinly critic is most solicitous of Mr. Kreymborg's comfort 
during middle age, but Mr, Kreymborg committed a nasty little sex 
suicide when he "would be" ... "a woman big with gentle 
yielding"; he suggests a posthumous antidote, state provision of what 
he most wants — money, fame, leisure, women — never mind what the 
women want . . . well, most of them must content themselves 
with exclamation marks, according to Mr. Rodker. 

From the frog to . . . " 'The Fish' ... is the best 
poem in the Antholog>%" and "the most difficult thing for a Georgian 
poet is to say something w^hen he has nothing to say" — more difficult 
by far for American to say nothing, when there is so much to be said. 

Note. For information on the love of frogs the reader may purchase 
Margaret Sanger's book, which will help boost the Birth Control Movement, 
aiming to suppress the only indulgence of frogs. 

58 The Little Review 

Thomas V au ghan 
by Mary Butts 

I MUST apologize to Mr. Foster Damon for my neglect to 
answer his letter in the April number on my review of the 
works of Thomas Vaughan which appeared in March, but 1 
have been out of England for some months, and only lately received 
my copies. 

I found in Vaughan's works (to whose study I had come with 
great anticipation) a vice which seems inherent in so much mystical 
writing and which has nothing to do with contemporary fashions 
of expression or fears of censorship, but which comes from a want 
of quality in the intelligence. Significant expressions of truth are 
clear in statement, they are not misleading, vague, or tiresome. This 
clarity is the common factor in science, contemplation, and art. The 
first chapter out of St. John's gospel, and the "Origin of Species" 
are linked by it. When one considers the nature of the mystic's 
research is it too much to demand the same precision? 

Professional mystics however will have their mysticism a mystery, 
one result of which is that the "uninitiate" gives it up, the man in 
some stage of "initiation" knows enough to resent the half deception. 
As to the fear of persecution which Mr. Damon thinks might 
influence Vaughan's successors today — I can only say that as good 
men as he have faced it, and that any profound knowledge of reality 
usually makes its possessor not only confident, and indifferent to its 
results in the world, but capable of stating it under an adequate 

I defy any one who reads Vaughan not to be reminded of the 
penny worth of bread and the intolerable deal of sack. 

JVilliam Carlos JVilliams^ ^^ Kara in HelF^ 
by Else von Freytag-Loringheven 

(See page 59) 

The Little Review 59 

The following five pages were originally given 
over to a very interesting review of William Carlos 
Williams's new book, "Kore in Hell", by Else von 
Freytaf-Loringhoven. The article, one of the most 
intelligent pieces of critism that has ever come to us 
was neverthelees marred for me, by certain redun- 
dancies of thinking that destroyed the power and 
piquancy of the whole. With great skill (or so I 
thought) my editorial insight accomplised the neces- 
sary revisions. But the author disagreed with me 
so violently that we agreed to omit the article un- 
til next month, when it will appear in its original 

The policy of the Little Review has alwaya 
been : a free stage for the artist. There are 
moments when I believe this to be an uninteresting 
policy. — M. C. A. 

60 The Little keviev) 

A Note on Minns 
by Hart Crane 

An ignorance of the professional, technical "elements" of photog- 
raphy, it seems to me, should very slightly, if at all, invalidate one's 
claim to the appreciation of such work as that of H. W. Minns. In 
his case, my appreciation can begin only where the fundamental peda- 
gogics of the camera leave off, — at the point where the craftsman 
merges into the artist, — where the creative element becomes distinct. 
Some combination of eye and sympathy and hand are subtly respon- 
sible for the quality in his work. His "arrangements" are not the 
empty, obvious contortions of so many modern photographers. He 
plainly could not content himself with that. There is, in his faces, 
the urge of an ethical curiosity and sympathy as strongly evident 
as in the novels of Henry James. Undoubtedly his portraits are 
deeper, more vivid, than the daily repetitions of his sitters in their 
mirrors give back to any but themselves, but this is only to mention 
again the creative element that gives to his portraits such a sense of 
drmatic revelations. 

Mr. Minns has often exhibited in Europe, and has received 
extensive recognition at Dresden, Vienna, and Copenhagen exhibi- 
tions. He began taking pictures when he was considerably beyond 
thirty, and has since spent some twenty years working in the rather 
limited and unresponsive locality of Akron, Ohio. 




64 The Little Review 


The LiiiXe Review has secured a 
remarkable novel by Mary Butts, 
"Ashe of Rings," which will begin 
serially in the January number. 

Other Books 
by John Rodker 

Poemes Juifs. Andre Spire. Edition of L'Ev entail. 


THESE hard, matter of fact poems, so real, so jewishly real, 
so unlike M. Aragon's poetical poems, have one hundred per 
cent efficiency and are terrible in their strength. For the 
jew who has suffered, who finds that despite his age-old instincts he 
has neverthless assimilated himself to the nation of his adoption — must 
live in it scorning its excesses ; unable to comprehend them or their 
devotion to a heaven and hell and mean self interest, — what fate 
could be harder, what exile more intorlerable ? 

The jew lies like a rye grain buried in fat and bursting wheat 
ears. For a time as he sees how completely he has swallowed the 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 65 

habits of the wheat ear, its exquisite intonations, its passion to get out- 
side itself in a wild pursuit of objets-d'arts, he may even persuade 
himself that he is "one of them." Yet always he must see himself 
eventually nameless, an eternal Schlemihl. 

This is the burden of M. Spire's book. This static body in 
the midst of flux, a static body that would like to flow too but 

"Je venais de mon rude pays de sel, d'oolithe, de fer 
ou la riviere empoissonnee de soude" * * * 

If you think "art is the whole caboose" you will find these poems 
artless. But I think of M. Spire as a very good poet with a capacity 
for feeling; for suffering which would have done credit to Walt 

La Connaissance, Paris, 2 fr, 50, June and July 

BOTH numbers contain a series of letters by Stendhal dated 
1873. The July number has an amusing study "Alba ou les 
parturitions d'une jeune malthusienne." For the rest it is 
a very well informed little journal with quite the best sentiments. 

THE Dial for August has an appalling, an abominable, an in- 
conceivable "London" letter from Mr. Shanks full of the 
damnation of faint praise which begins: "It is told that the 
late Mr. Joseph Chamberlain" . . . 

Its translations from Rimbaud though unsigned are superb. I 
would give much to know who was responsible for them : 


In the wood is a bird, its song stops you and makes you blush. 

There is a clock which does not strike. 

There is a gully with a nest of white animals. 

There is a cathedral that descends and z, lake that climbs. 

66 T h e Lit tl e Re V i ew 

There is a little carriage, abandoned in the shrubbery, or that comes 

down the path, running, beribboned. 
There is a troop of little comedians in costume, seen in the road across 
liOi,£;.;i ■ the edge of the wood. 
Finally, when you are hungry and thirsty, there is somebody who 

chases you away. 

Mr. Hueffer is entertaining on the subject of the ungenuous- 
ness of Mr. Wells. 

Feu dejoie, Louis Aragon. Au Sam Pareil. 3 fr. 50. 


"^HESE remarkably mature poems by a prominent Dadaiste 
are eminently reasonable, so much so that this book seems 
to me quite the most interesting contemporary French work 
I have seen. Poetry — dead in France since Verlaine (dead then you 
may perhaps say), with only the exception of Apollinaire and de 
Gourmont — appears to be looking up. Certainly "Soifs de I'ouest" 
is astonishingly good. Part metrically and part in its subject matter 
this poem is interestingly like Mr. Eliot's preludes, 

"Dans ce bar dont la porte ' 

Sans cesse bat au vent 

une affiche ecarlate h 

Vante un autre savon 
^ Dansez dansez ma chere 

nous avons des banjos. 
Oh p 

qui me donnera seulement a macher 
les chewing-gums inutiles 
qui parfument tres doucement 
I'haleine des filles des villes 

Epices dans I'alcool mesure par les pailles 

et menthes sans raison barbouillant les liqueur.^ 

The Little Review 67 

il est des amours sans douceurs 
dans les docks sans poissons ou la barmaid 
"Pour demain" is a most charming poem. Many influences are 
of course discernible in his work : — Corbiere, Rimbaud, ApoUinaire, 
Baudelaire, but this is as it should be since M. Aragon is young, and 
the important thing is that it should have been a natural task that led 
him to them. Nobody ever claimed a corner in ideas. 

"Secousse" is a good poem. "Vie de Jean Baptiste A" has these 
impressive lines: 

La premier arrive au fond du corridor 
123456789 10 MORT 
une ombre au milieu du soleil dort c'est I'oeil 

From images like "Tu gardes Failure! 
Du papier glace 


"Mais le voix Non 
Sur un ton de lave 

it is obvious that we are here in contact with a very good mind indeed. 
"Lever" is a long poem, perhaps not altogether sustained, but suffi- 
ciently important to induce one to await M. Aragon's future work 
with anxiety. 

''The City Curious'' by yean de Bosschere, 
Heineman 12-6 

THIS sinister litle story and its equally sinister decorations is 
another of those books for children which grown-ups buy 
for their own delectation. Yet an imaginative child will like 
this somewhat ornate story of a people composed of slabs of cake and 
whose aliment is entirely jams and syrups. Unlike Alice in Won- 

^- 1 

68 T he Lit tie Review 

derland, which is eminently reasonable if a little extravagant, this 
story has no roots in reality. It is certainly not the behaviour of 
one's grown-ups gone suddenly good. 

At any rate M. de Bosschere makes his curious vision absorb- 
ingly interesting and one rushes through the book for the denoue- 
ment as in a detective story. 

"The Despoiler, who was always afraid that Some One would 
find out that he was only made of Cardboard, never slept in public," 
is the most extraordinary of these characters and the drawing of the 
despoiler asleep in a tall attic with a blanket nailed across the win- 
dows is terrifying. M. de Bosschere is certainly the most accom- 
plished artist engaged in illustrating books, and his special sense of the 
decorative quality of black and white and his purity of line are a 
great pleasure. The colour reproductions are rather dirty and give 
but a vague idea of the gaiety of his colour and his delicious sense of 


The Sackbut,'' London, Monthly 10s. Nos 1-5 

THE Sackbut is an addition to London's musical papers — if they 
exist ; and we welcome the asperity of its opinions and the 
violence of its correspondence. It is trying to do for music 
what the Little Review does for literature, and boosts chiefly Bernard 
van Dieren, Kaikoshru Sorabji, and in passing Delius. Its recent 
passage with Mr. Ernest Newman was a model of this kind of thing, 
though Mr. Gray would have been less amusing had he not quoted 
in every line of his truly ponderous onslaughts enough great names ta 
supply the whole of the Comtist calendar. 

The Sackbut's literature is supplied by Robert Nichols and 
Mr. Arthur Symons, whom we are surprised to find is still writing. 
The results can be imagined. The text of the Sackbut is enlivened 
by actual examples of its musical standards, and the series of con- 
certs which it intends to give in order to bring its readers up to the 
editorial mark promises to be interesting. 

F -I 

The Little Review 69 

Essen tial s 
by Robert McAlmon 

ASK "jh" too whether one must be "strange," "compelling," 
"original" at all costs, or whether it is well to be these only 
when you mark an advance, or at least grant value equal 
to the "old." There is a disease "modern traditionalism" that has 
little to do with art, or life. A "modern" who counts, is surprisingly 
like a "classic" in scope of comprehension, and neither of them deal 
with the dry chaff of words, manner, and form, until they have some 
content in which they themselves have faith to put into form, via 
words and manner. 

Art is essential? If life is. You can take your pick of which is 
the bigger thing — life, art, religion, science. If art is essential, it is so 
because of the live significance of it. A James Branch Cabell, Anatole 
France, type of erudition-wrought writing, with rejuggled philoso- 
phies and theories that come from reading rather than from contact, 
physical and mentally perceptive, is deadly, but it does have some 
degree of "understanding" within it. A D. H. Lawrence sullen bull 
intensity without the clarity of intelligence, or the area, is rather 
bad too. But both these mentioned things are "genuine" to the con- 
viction of their producers. One of them believes in life through 
literature; the other believes in the white incandescence of the lumi- 
nous spore-like germ, or some such thing. Tell me, will you, how 
many of your lesser contributors have that much genuine quality? 

An artist's prime occupation is with life. Art is his outlet. One 
does not become an artist by going into the arts. One has some per- 
ception, some interpretation, some essential record that one must 
leave. What has Djuna Barnes, or Bodenheim, or Malcolm Cowley, 
or Witter Bynner, Ben Hecht, Mark Turbyfill, and a few others 
to leave? Omit their names from their work, — all that any of them 
has ever done, compiled in a book, — and who would recognize it 
as theirs? They produce neither conscious, accidental, nor perverse 
art. Cowley, and the poor overdone family cat, slur at re- 
spectability, the tenacles of houses; — if these things meant something 
to him more than a mannerism, aped from some artist who has made 

70 The Little Review 

them a part of a whole, their over-usage by "moderns" would not 
matter. It is deemed essential to be subtly satirical over respecta- 
bility, over repressed sexuality, over many things called "modern." 
Sterne, Rabelais— innumerable ancients did it better than the pseudos^ 

A piece of writing should be criticised upon its own basis, but 
few of the mentioned people give their writing any basis of its own. 
They swim under a sea of influences — Rodker, doing the Rimbaud 
thing fifty years too late, and he many years too old to put "belief" 
into it. Men such as Pound, with crisp minds worshipping at the 
shrine of LaForgue and Rimbaud, who were simply precocious ex- 
amples of the "malaise de la jeunesse" and interesting or ingrati- 
ating for that reason rather than for art. Art deals with life. Form 
is something to worry about for the artist, but not the other fellow's 
form. Joyce is not "modern" in form, but "Joyce." Followers on are 
procreating mechanics. The impact of experience, environment, real- 
ized perception — not literary-gained knowledge — and a will to say 
something about it produces literature, which is valuable if the pro- 
ducer finds his own form, — valuable both for perception, and for form. 
What the artist needs first is the faith of his own ego, and the convic- 
tion of its knowing, and feeling, so that into form he can put some 
quivering protoplasm that men of comprehension can look at and 
not card index. 

Freud speaks of the "sexual impulse." Is there such a thing! 
A voluptuous impulse, yes, which desires not contact with another 
sex, but satisfaction, and which consequently seeks for it at many 
destinations en route to the marriage bed which all good Christians 
declare is the ultimate. And the roots of the voluptuous impulse are 
a desire for a justification — an art, a religion, a love, a science — and 
there is no justification but an individual's faith in his own ego, — 
his vision of the universe as himself transcended and multiplied, with 
his ego a thing he can be quite detached and abstract about, — a shrine 
before which he can call nations, politicians, gods and undertakers, 
and say "worship." But if he doesn't worship himself what boots it? 

I haven't form; neither have I an aped structure. Christ knows 
I'm no artist — perhaps en route. I don't know, can't care, must 
write any way, nothing else I want to do and I have energy and con- 
ceptions. Every now and then in some little thing I achieve "form." 

The Little Review 71 

Then somehow I'm satisfied, and don't care about sending it in — 
both because I know it to be complete, and because I know it is a 
lesser "form" that doesn't indicate much to me. 

Do you know any "modern" critic, you "jh," Eliot, or anybody 
else who would be capable of writing in the abstract a philosophy of 
art of comprehension comparable to Taine's, or of Remy de Gour- 
mont's, with "modern" understanding, — O yes indeed, but we must 
insist, with equal scope, — however different the texture. Or do we 
know much about even our individual philosophies of art today. 
Doesn't the Little Review "chance it" frequently on, — say on some 
simple being — such as the man who wrote the bloody spittle in the 
bowl story, for instance? Pourquoi moi, I am agnostic. I know of 
only two writers in whom I can believe — of course I make no strin- 
gent effort to "keep up" — but Hardy, and Joyce, with Conrad and 
Hudson, at least know what they want to do. Hardy has a convic- 
tion in some kind of unity of futility in existence ; Joyce has insight 
into people. Conrad I have read but slightly, and Hudson — I don't 
know. I liked his "Purple Land" and "Green Mansions" — well he's 
had space enough. I've nothing to say about him. 

The million things I say are attempts at location. You declare 
you have yours. I ask questions to ascertain your conviction. I 
only know one person who has his "location" and it isn't mine. I 
don't write to write, but because I hate, or adore, or don't know what 
to do about life to such an extent that I can't end it, unsolved. The 
whole damned process is a frame-up — you're caught going and com- 
ing, and at both ends, for every realized impulse. 

Hasn't the race been "civilized," such as the word has come to 
mean, for enough generations, for it to be rather absurd to talk about 
"primal" impulses, and want to go back to the primitive, naive, child- 
mind form sort of thing? Isn't a complex man, emotionally, spiri- 
tually, intellectually, quite a "natural" manifestation. There have 
been so many of them from bible times on down? 

72 The Little Review 

The Russian Dadaists 
by L, Lozowick 

AMERICA has its Else von Freytag Loringhoven, France its 
Tristan Tzara, anJ Russia its Alexander Krutchenich. 
The Russian Dadaists — or, as they call themselves, Ego- 
Futurists, Cubo-Futurists, etc., — have been writing longer than their 
analogues in America and France. 

And they are tremendously serious. They spin elaborate theo- 
ries. They lambast the opposition. They are aggressively immodest. 
"I, Igor Severianin — Genius." 

Here is a "great dramatic poem" by Vasili Gniedov, written in 
a language of his own creation. I translate it faithfully: 









Zavivai Zavivapronosoiyaiyainemo 


Stoyispognetzalyejoot'nasay — chdoo 



They are contemptuous of language as a means to communicate 
ideas. For their self expression they want to create a medium en- 
dowed with color, taste, sound. 

Here is a poem of Alexander Krutchenich, the most formidable 
theorist of the new movement. The poem is, in his own opinion, 
greater than all of Pushkin. 

dir boor shtchill 

The Little Review 73 

vi so boo 
Krutchenich has written a series of critical articles on the litera- 
ture of Russia. It is an amazing collection. His keen analysis and 
withering satire are inimitable. From Pushkin to Dostoevsky, from 
Tolstoy to Sologub, all popular idols are brought before the seat of 
judgment, subjected to a rigorous cross-examination, and ruthlessly 
condemned to the block. 

A bit of admonition from his pen: 

"Cast Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, etc., from the ship of the 
Present and let them not contaminate the air!" 

I wonder how many Pushkins and Tolstoys of other lands should 
be made to join the Russians in the happy consummation? 

jE . Ro h ert S c hmi tz 

by Margaret Anderson 

R. SCHMITZ' playing of the piano is probably the most 
interesting to be heard in America today, — scientifically the 
most interesting. This is not to disparage its extremely 
musical content (one never hears Debussy, for instance, played with 
more "fulness" or colour) ; but Mr. Schmitz's experiments in sound, 
in a very specialized modern technique, engage one's intellectual in- 
terest to a point that overshadows other aspects. Only a deep per- 
sonal magic in the performer prevents this overshadowing, and this 
Mr. Schmitz does not possess. Harold Bauer, who commands a 
lesser range of tonal possibilities than Mr. Schmitz, holds his audience 
with a surer spell. It is entirely a matter of personal capacity — of 
how particularly one sees life and how consciously one can record the 
particularity. I am not interested in any of the conventional criticism 
of Mr. Schmitz. Why should a man who plays the music of his 
own generation be classified as "modern," and the question of his 
possible inefficiency in regard to the "old masters" be discussed from 
one end of the foolish country to another? Such criticism is as point- 
less as the praise given to a man like Richard Buhlig, — who plays 
with no significance because he plays with none of the vibrations of 

74 TheLittleReview 

his own age. Mr. Schmitz plays Bach and Beethoven and 
Chopin with as much distinction and resourcefulness as he plays Ravel 
and Debussy. All a man can play is — himself. 

Mr. Schmitz will give another recital in Aeolian Hall on De- 
cember 17, 

Marguerite D'Alvare^ 
by Margaret Anderson 

IN talking of Marguerite D'Alvarez one must talk much of 
personal magic. Mme. D'Alvarez is just beginning a series 
of concerts in this country that will undoubtedly establish 
her as one of the greatest contraltos of the age — a reputation she 
already enjoys in London and other parts of the world. Of course 
Americans are most skeptical, at first, of personal magic. It took 
them years to acclaim Mary Garden. And, once acclaimed, their 
recognition is as nauseating as their failure to recognize. They 
never recognize essential quality. I really much prefer to hear them 
saying that Mary Garden "can't sing," that she is a conceited freak, 
a blatant showman, than to hear them saying that she is a wonderful 
actress who gives them the sensation of "shooting up and down in an 

Mme. D'Alvarez is a great artist. She not only has one of the 
most magnificent voices in the world ; she has an intellect which is 
preoccupied with discovering and creating new beauty rather than, 
like most singers, satisfied with reproducing that already stated. The 
artist in a man very often finds the man a discordant environment, 
and expression is thereby tainted and limited. But the artist in Mme. 
D'Alvarez finds in the woman a rich, established, cultural environ- 
ment, both of race and of personal civilization. This combination 
doesn't produce a democratic art; it produces a splendour and lavish- 
ness which at the same time remain imperial and formal. 

Her first recital of the season will be given in Aeolian Hall on 
November 30. There will be a second one in January, and others 
still unannounced. 



by Arthur JVinthrop 

TAKING his usual morning walk after a hearty breakfast, 
Anthony Brewer knew himself a fortunate man. He 
walked idly, leisurely soaking up the sunlight, the crisp 
wind, the bitter smell of privet; his eye delighted with 
their sombre greens and bright patches of viridian. 
The outlines of the houses reminded him of the village where 
his boyhood was spent; the low eaves jostled staid Georgian exteriors. 
One house was called "The Antlers" ; it had a skull and antlers 
over the lintel. 

The broad opulent privet hedges pleased him most. It was on 
one of these he saw the piece of string which was to be his ruin. It 
was plaited, and for some minutes intimation of terror made him 
contemplate it. This in itself he felt was remarkable since he was 
of strong will and decided action. Then concluding that to be so 
undecided was more than childish he picked it up. 

It was at this moment that there woke in him an impersonal 
feeling of inimical forces. From very far down in his memory the 
association "plaited string" said "Be careful." He remembered then 
quite simply and without effort that in certain places it was custo- 
mary to untie every knot in the house in order to facilitate child- 

He felt that he was on the tack but had not quite got what he 
wanted. Then he remembered that string was often plaited as a 
charm : an incantation was made over it and the string thrown away. 
The curse would then alight on whoever untied the knot. He was 
faintly amused. It was a sparkling autumn morning. He had only to be 
aware of the exhilaration of blood racing in his body to feel how 
absurd was all superstition. Automatically and with only a faint 
reluctance he pulled out the string. Immediately it stuck fast. He 
tried the other end with the same result. Again it unravelled for a 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 77 

moment and stuck fast. He carefully undid the knot, saying to him- 
self, "throw it away, you've still time," but all the time his fingers 
were working away at it. Suddenly the string was unravelled and 
hung from his finger. He said to himself, "You've done it now," 
and felt oppressed. . 

The morning had lost its headiness and he walked back quietly. 
He thought of childbed — that was impossible. A hideous and ob- 
scene thought flashed then through his brain — some victim of in- 
somnia. Some unfortunate who lived in anguished anticipation of a 
night which would bring no relief. That night which though all the 
world found repose must be for him a continual grinding of his 
brain about his life's follies, asburdities, crimes. Was this the curse 
then that Brewer had brought upon himself? — of all curses the most 
terrible. Those occasional nights when he could not sleep had been 
more full of terror for him than anything in his life. How he had 
tossed from side to side, hugged his pillow in agony, with what 
tears and good resolutions waited for the dawn. And now when- 
ever he feared he might not sleep it took him hours to drop off. 
Already he saw a sleepless night. The morning seemed suddenly cold. 
He hurried home. 

His wife, all atremble, met him on the doorstep. A strange cat 
had got into the cellar. It had stared at her with fierce yellow eyes. 
Now it would not move. The inspector had called to see the meter 
and the cat had leapt at him. The inspector had been cross and 
scolded her for not telling him. Perhaps it had rabies. She had 
heard of such things. 

Brewer began to feel he was seeing prodigies — lions in the street, 
headless ghosts, blood dripping from the sky. He was sure now that 
he had released some principle of evil. 

His brother-in-law came to dinner and smoked all the cigarettes 
and seized the best arm chair. This always happened, but tonight it 
appeared to have a malign intention. 

Feeling she must get the matter over, his wife, as they undressed, 
confessed that the strange cat had so upset the maid that his Spode 
tureen was smashed beyond hope of rivetting. This convinced 
him that he had adopted another's curse. 

From this day he went into a decline. He became superstitious. 

78 T h e L i t tl e Re V i ew 

He carefully avoided the joints of paving stones, always went once 
round every lamppost, and before putting down any object ran his 
finger round the circumference seven times. 

Every annoyance was put down to that unfortunate morning. Fi- 
nally two bills could not arrive by the same post without upsetting 
him beyond all measure. 

His back bent, his fingers grew corpse cold, and long pale hairs 
grew on the joints, the hair of his head fell out. Life was too 
much for him. 

Garden Abstract 

by Hart Crane 

THE apple on its bough is her desire — 
Shining suspension, mimic of the sun. 
The bough has caught her breath up, and her voice. 
Dumbly articulate in the slant and rise 
Of branch on branch above her, blurs her eyes. 
She is prisoner of the tree and its green fingers. 

And so she comes to dream herself the tree. 

The wind possessing her — weaving her young veins, 

Holding her to the sky and its quick blue. 

Drowning the fever of her hands in sunlight. 

She has no memory, nor fear, nor hope 

Beyond the grass and shadows at her feet, 


by Carlo Linati 

To Ezra Pound 

Voire dine est un paysage choisi ' 

Que vout charrnants masques et bergamasques . . . 
I ; — Paul Verlaine. 

HOW tenderly, that April morning, we looked at the little 
maid who knelt in the sun, planting a small primrose 
garden, that she sprinkled with water of the Brembo! 
The sunlight was so clear among the poplar trees 
whose buds spread heavy wine smell. A big washer- 
woman was bustling about. The rustic limbs delineated themselves 
upon the green so majestically that you whispered: "The spirit of 
Titian is wandering in the air." 

Venetian suavity and lombradic vigour. Bergamasque ! The 
carpaccesco portico of the farmhouse, harlequinesque women, the 
broken line of the hills and the golden light scattered upon the 
landscape, dreaming in the dawn and so silent. 

But you, fantastic creature, sought the bank-side. You would 
be pleased to discover a bank to this beautiful river upon whicli 
you could run in some airy dance, in sight of the turbulent stream, 
like a child to kiss from time to time! 
We reached, at last, the canal. 

You sat upon the parapet; I, undressed, threw myself into the 

Plunged in the heart of the waters that leapt down from the 
mills and factories of the mountain above, I felt the energy of my 
country becoming spirit and flesh in my heart. Supine, I sang an 
old lombard song, stirring up the rocky echoes: then swam along the 
bank with a fellow snake, like some primordial triton. 

80 T h e Little Review 

I got up and came toward you (you so frightened!) and we 
took our lunch together, the swallows flying over us. 

The evening took us by surprise in Bergamo Alta. Along the 
lanes the tinkers were finishing the friezes upon their pails, and the 
old women folded up in their shawls, hurried to the red-lit altars. 
What a good charcuterie smell walked about for all the Borgo! 
Antique-dealers sat down drowsily on the threshold of the shops: stout 
men with galgaresque faces sat by the inn windows playing at cards, 
brawling, drinking, with oaths. 

How agreeable to stroll about among the lanes behind the 
Duomo. Quiet luminous orchards, carved portals, mocking masques 
upon the arches of the windows. But, arriving at the walls of Santa 
Grata, how beautiful the lombard plain, its rich immensity, and, 
below, the flaring scintillation of the river, delicate scimitar lying 
across the land. 


by yames yoyce 

Episode XIV 

DESHIL Holies Eamus, Deshil Holies Eamus, Deshil 
Holies Eamus. Send us, bright one, light one, Hor- 
horn, quickening and wombfruit. Send us, bright one 
light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send 
us bright one light one, Horhorn, quickening and 

Hoopsa, boyaboy, hoopsa! Hoopsa, boyaboy, hoopsa! Hoopsa, 
boyaboy, hoopsa! 

Universally that person's acumen is esteemed very little percep- 
tive concerning whatsoever matters are being held as most profitably 
by mortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant of 
that which the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of 
that in them high mind's ornament deserving of veneration constantly 
maintain when by general consent they affirm that other circumstances 
being equal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation 
more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far forward 
may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that proliferent 
continuance which of evils the original if it be absent when fortu- 
nately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipoUent nature's in- 
corrupted benediction. For who is there who anything of some sig- 
nificance has apprehended but is conscious that that exterior splendour 
may be the surface of a downward tending lutulent reality or on the 
contrary anyone so is there inilluminated as not to perceive that as no 
nature's boon can contend against the county of increase so it behooves 
every most just citizen to become the exhortator and admonisher of 
his semblables and to tremble lest what had in the past been by the 
nation excellently commenced might be in the future not with similar 
excellence accomplished if an invercund habit shall have gradually 
traduced the honourable by ancestors transmitted cu§toms to that 

82 T he Little Review 

thither of profundity that that one was audacious excessively who 
would have the hardihood to rise affirming that no more odious offence 
can for anyone be than to oblivious neglect to consign that evangel 
simultaneously command and promise which on all mortals with pro- 
phecy of abundance or with diminution's menace that exalted of reit- 
eratedly procreating function ever irrevocably enjoined? 

It is not why therefore we shall wonder if, as the best historians 
relate, among the Celts, who nothing that was not in its nature admir- 
able admired the art of medicine shall have been highly honored. Not 
to speak of hostels, leperyards, sweating chambers, plaguegraves, their 
greatest doctors, the O'Shiels, the O'Hickeys, the O'Lees, have sedu- 
lously set down the divers methods by which the sick and the relapsed 
found again health whether the malady had been the trembling with- 
ering or loose boyconnell flux. Certainly in every public work which 
in it anything of gravity contains preparation should be with import- 
ance commensurate and therefore a plan was by them adopted 
(whether by having preconsidered or as the maturation of experience 
it is difficult in being said which the discrepant opinions of subsequent 
inquirers are not up to the present congrued to render manifest) 
whereby maternity was so far from accident possibility removed that 
whatever care the patient in that allhardest of woman hour chiefly 
required and not solely for the copiously opulent but also for her who 
not being sufficiently moneyed scarcely and often not even scarcely 
could subsist valiantly and for an inconsiderable emolument was pro- 

To her nothing already then and thenceforward was anyway able 
to be molestful for this chiefly felt all citizens except with proliferent 
mothers prosperity at all not to can be, and as they had received 
eternity gods mortals generation to bent them her beholding, when the 
case was so having itself, parturient in vehicle thereward carrying 
desire immense among all one another was impelling on of her to be 
received into that domicile. O thing of prudent nation not merely in 
being seen but also even in being related worthy of being praised 
that they her by ancipation went seeing mother, that she by them 
suddenly to be about to be cherished had been begun she felt! 

Before born babe bliss had. Within womb won he worship. 
Whatever in that one case done comrnodiously done was. A couch 

The Little Review 83 

by midwives attended with wholesome food reposeful cleanest 
swaddles as though forthbringing were now done and by wise fore- 
sight set: but to this no less of what drugs there is need and surgical 
implements which are pertaining to her case not omitting aspect of 
all very distracting spectacles in various latitudes by our terrestrial 
orb offered together with images, divine and human, the cogitation 
of which by sejunct females is to tumescence conducive or eases issue 
in the high sunbright wellbuilt fair home of mothers when, osten- 
sibly far gone and reproductitive, it is come by her thereto to lie in, 
her term up. 

Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night's 
oncoming. Of Israel's folk was that man that on earth wandering 
far had fared. Stark ruth of man his errand that him lone led till 
that house. 

Of that house A. Home is lord. Seventy beds keeps he there 
teeming mothers are wont that they lie for to thole and bring forth 
bairns hale so God's angel to Mary quoth. Watchers they there walk, 
white sisters in ward sleepless. Smarts they still sickness soothing: 
in twelve moon thrice an hundred. Truest bedthanes they twain are, 
for Home holding wariest ward. 

In ward wary the watcher hearing come that man mild-hearted 
eft rising with swire ywimpled to him her gate wide undid. Lo, 
levin leaping lightens in eyebling Ireland's westward welkin! Full 
she dread that God the Wreaker all mankind would fordo with water 
for his evil sins. Christ's rood made she on breastbone and him 
drew that he would rather infare under her thatch. That man her 
will wotting worthful went in Home's house. 

Loth to irk in Home's hall hat holding the seeker stood. On 
her stow he ere was living with dear wife and lovesome daughter 
that then over land and seafloor nine years had long outwandered. 
Once her in townhithe meeting he to her bow had not doffed. Her 
to forgive now he craved with good ground of her allowed that that 
of him swiftseen face, hers, so young then had looked. Light swift 
her eyes kindled, bloom of blushes his word winning. 

As her eyes then ongot his weeds swart therefor sorrov?'' she 
feared. Glad after she was that ere adread was. Her he asked if 
O'Hare Doctor tidings sent from far coast and she with grameful 

84 T he Little Review 

sigh him answered that O'Hare Doctor in heaven was. Sad was the 
man that word to hear that him so heavied in bowels ruthful. All she 
there told him, ruing death for friend so young, algate sore unwilling 
God's rightwiseness to withsay. She said that he had a fair sweet 
death through God His goodness with masspriest to be shriven, holy 
housel and sick men's oil to his limbs. The man then right earnest asked 
the nun of which death the dead man was died and the nun answered 
him and said that he was died in Mona island through bellycrab three 
year agone come Yule and she prayed to God the AUruthful to have 
his dear soul in his undeathliness. He heard her sad words, in held 
hat sad staring. So stood they there both av/hile in wanhope, sorrow- 
ing one with other. 

Therefore, everyman, look to that last end that is thy death and 
the dust that gripeth on every man that is born of woman for as he 
came naked forth of his mother's womb so naked shall he wend him at 
the last for to go as he came. 

The man that was come into the house then spoke to the nursing- 
woman and he asked her how it fared with the woman that lay 
there in childbed. The nursingwoman answered him and said that 
that woman was in throes now full three days and that it would be 
a hard birth unneth to bear but that now in a little it would be. She 
said that she had seen many births of women but never was 
none so hard as was that woman's birth. Then she set it forth all 
to him that time was had lived high that house. The man heark- 
ened to her words for he felt with wonder women's woe in the 
travail that they have of motherhood and he wondered to look on 
her face that was a young face for any man to see but yet was she 
left after long years a handmaid. Nine twelve bloodflows chiding 
her childless. 

And whiles they spake the door of the castle was opened and 
there nighed them a mickle noise as of many that sat there at meat. 
And there came against the place as they stood a young learning 
knight yclept Dixon. And the traveller Leopold was couth to him 
sithen it had happed that they had ado each with other in the house 
of misericord where this learning knight lay by cause the traveller 
Leopold came there to be healed for he was sore wounded in his 
breast by a spear wherewith a horrible, and dre.adful dragon wa§ 

The Little Review 85 

smitten him for which he did to make a salve of volatile salt and 
chrism as much as he might suffice. And he said now that he should 
go mto that castle for to make merry with them that were there. And 
the traveller Leopold said that he should go otherwhither for he was 
a man of cautels and a subtle. Also the lady was of his avis and 
repreved the learning knight though she trowed well that the 
traveller had said thing that was false for his subtility. But the 
learning knight would not hear say nay nor do her mandement he 
have him in aught contrarious to his list and he said how it was a 
marvelous castle. And the traveller Leopold went into the castle 
for to rest him for a space being sore of limb after many marches 
environing in divers lands and sometime venery. 

And in the castle was set a board that was of the birchwood of 
Finlandy and it was upheld by four dwarfmen of that country but 
they durst not move more for enchantment. And on this board were 
frightful swords and knives that are made in a great cavern by 
swinking demons out of white flames that they fix in the horns of 
buffalos and stags that there abound marvellously. And there were 
vessels that are wrought by magic out of seasand and the air by a 
warlock with his breath that he blares into them like to bubbles. 
And full fair cheer and rich was on the board that no wight could 
devise a fuller ne richer. And there was a vat of silver that was 
moved by craft to open in the which lay strange fishes withouten 
heads though misbelieving men nie that this be possible thing with- 
out they see it natheless they are so. And these fishes lie in an oily 
water brought there from Portugal land because of the fatness that 
therein is like to the juices of the olive press. And also it was a 
marvel to see in that castle how by magic they make a compost 
out of fecund wheat kidneys out of Chaldee that by aid of certain 
angy spirits that they do into it swells up wondrously like to a vast 
mountain. And they teach the serpents there to entwine themselves 
up on long sticks out of the ground and of the scales of these serpents 
they brew out a brewage like to mead. 

And the learning knight let pour for the traveller a draught 
and halp thereto the while all they that were there drank every each. 
And the traveller Leopold did up his beaver for to pleasure him and 
took apertly somewhat in amity for he never drank no manner of 

86 The Little Review 

mead and anon full privily he voided the more part in his neighbour 
glass and his neighbour nist not of his wile. And he sat down m 
that castle with them for to rest him there awhile Thanked be 
Almighty God. 

This meanwhile this good sister stood by the door and begged 
them at the reverence of Jesu our alther liege Lord to leave their 
wassailing for there was above one quick with child a gentle dame, 
whose time hied fast. Sir Leopold heard on the upfloor cry on high 
and he wondered what cry that it was whether of child or woman 
and I marvel, said he, that it be not come or now. Meseems it dureth 
overlong. And he was ware and saw a franklin that bight Lenehan 
an that side the table that was older than any of the tother and for 
that they both were knights virtuous in the one emprise and eke by 
cause that he was elder he spoke to him full gently. But, said he, 
or it be long too she will bring forth by God His bounty and have 
joy for she hath waited marvellous long. And the franklin that had 
drunken said. Expecting each moment to be her next. Also he took 
the cup that stood tofore him for him needed never done asking nor 
desiring of him to drink and, Now drink, said he, fully delectably, 
and he quaffed as far as he might to their both's health for he 
was a passing good man of his lustiness. And Sir Leopold that was 
the goodliest guest that ever sat in scholar's hall and that was the 
meekest man and the kindest that ever laid husbandly hand under 
hen and that was the very knight of the world one that ever did 
minion service to lady gentle pledged him courtly in the cup. Woman's 
woe with wonder pondering. 

Now let us speak of that fellowship that was there to the intent 
to be drunken an they might. There was a sort of scholars along 
either side the board, that is to wit, Dixon yclept junior of Saint 
Mary Merciable's with other his fellows Lynch and Madden., 
scholars of medicine, and the franklin that hight Lenehan and one 
from Alba Longa, one Crotthers, and young Stephen that had mien 
of a frere that was at head of the board and Costello that men 
clepen Punch Costello all long of a mastery of him erewhile gested 
(and of all them, reserved young Stephen, he was the most drunken 
that demanded still of more mead) and beside the meek Sir Leopold. 
But on young Malachi they waited for that he promised to have come 

The Little Review 87 

and such as intended to no goodness said how he had broke his avow. 
And Sir Leopold sat with them for he bore fast friendship to Sir 
Simon and to this his son young Stephen and for that his langour 
becalmed him there after longest wanderings insomuch as they 
feasted him for that time in the honourablest manner. Ruth red 
him, love led on with will to wander, loth to leave. 

For they were right witty scholars. And he heard their aresouns 
each gen other as touching birth and righteousness, young Madden 
maintaining that put such case it were heard the wife to die (for so 
it had fallen out a matter of some year agone with a woman of 
Eblana in Home's house that now was trepassed out of this world 
and the self night next before her death all leeches and pothecaries 
had taken counsel of her case). And they said farther she should live 
because in the beginning they said the woman should bring forth in 
pain and wherefore they that were of this imagination affirmed how 
young Madden had said truth for he had conscience to let her die. 
And not few and of these was young Lynch were in doubt that the 
world was now right evil governed as it was never other howbeit 
the mean people believed it otherwise but the law nor his judges did 
provide no remedy. This was scant said but all cried with one acclaim 
the wife should live and the babe to die. And they waxed hot upon 
that head what with argument and what for their drinking but the 
franklin Lenehan was prompt to pour them ale so that at the least 
way mirth might not lack. Then young Madden showed all the 
whole affair and when he said how that she was dead and how for 
holy religion sake her goodman husband would not let her death 
whereby they were all wondrous grieved. To whom young Stephen 
had these words following, Murmur, sirs, is eke oft among lay folk. 
Both babe and parent now glorify their Maker, the one in limbo 
gloom, the other in purge fire. But what of those Godpossibled souls 
that we nightly impossibilise ? For, sirs, he said, our lust is brief. 
We are means to those small creatures within us and nature has 
other ends than we. Then said Dixon junior to Punch Costello 
wist he what ends. But he had overmuch drunken and the best 
word he could have of him was that he would ever dishonest a woman 
whoso she were or wife or maid or leman if it so fortuned him to be 
delivered of his spleen of lustihead. Whereas Crotthers of Alba 

The Little Review 

Longa sang young Malachi's praise of that beast the unicorn how 
once in the millennium he cometh by his horn the other all this while 
pricked' forward with their jibes wherew^ith they did malice him, 
witnessing all and several by Saint Cuculus his engines that he was 
able to do any manner of thing that lay in man to do. There at 
laughed they all right jocundly only young Stephen and sir Leopold 
which never durst laugh too open by reason of a strange humour 
w^hich he would not betray and also for that he rued for her that bare 
whoso she might be or wheresoever. Then spoke young Stephen 
orgulous of mother Church that would cast him out of her bosom, 
of law of canons, of bigness wrought by wind of seeds of brightness 
or by potency of vampires mouth to mouth or, as Virgilius saith, by 
the influence of the Occident or peradventure in her bath according 
to the opinions of Averroes and Moses Maimonides. He siid also 
how at the end of the second month a human soul was infused and 
how in all our holy mother foldeth ever souls for God's greater glory 
whereas that earthly mother which was but a dam to bring forth 
beastly should die by canon for so saith he that holdeth the fisherman's 
seal, even that blessed Peter on which rock was holy church for all 
ages founded. All they bachelors then asked of sir Leopold would 
he in like case so jeopard her person as risk life to save life. A 
wariness of mind he would answer as fitted all and, laying hand to 
jaw, he said dissembling that as it was informed him and agreeing 
also with his experience of so seldom seen an accident it was good 
for that Mother Church belike at one blow had birth and death pence 
and in such sort deliverly he scaped their questions. That is truth, 
said Dixon, and, or I err, a pregnant word: Which hearing young 
Stephen was a marvellous glad man and he averred that he who 
stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord for he was of a wild man- 
ner when he was drunken and that he was now in that taking it 
appeared eftsoons. 

But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by 
cause he still had pity of the terror causing shrieking of shrill women 
in their labour and as he was minded of his good lady Marion that 
had borne him an only manchild which on his eleventh day on live 
had died and no man of art could save so dark is destiny. And she 

T h e Lit t le Review 89 

was wondrous stricken of heart for that evil hap and for his burial 
did him on a fair corselet of lamb's wool, the flower of the flock, 
lest he might perish utterly and lie akeled (for it was then about 
the midst of the winter) and now sir Leopold that had of his body 
no manchild for an heir looked upon him his friend's son and was 
shut up in sorrow for his forepassed happiness and as sad as he was 
that him failed a son of such gentle courage (for all accounted him 
of real parts) so grieved he also in no less measure for young Stephen 
for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and murdered his 
goods with whores. 

About that present time young Stephen filled all cups that stood 
empty so as there remained but little if the prudenter had not shad- 
owed their approach from him that still plied it very busily who, 
praying for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff, he gave them for 
a pledge the vicar of Christ which also as he said is vicar of Bray. 
Now drink we, quod he, of this mazer and quaft ye this mead which 
is not indeed parcel of my body but my soul's bodiment. Leave ye 
fraction of bread to them that live by bread alone. Be not afeard 
neither for any want for this will comfort more than the other will 
dismay. See ye here. And he showed them glistering coins of the 
tribute and goldsmiths' notes the worth of two pound nineteen shil- 
lings that he had he said for a song which he writ. They all admired 
to see the foresaid riches in such dearth of money as was herebefore. 
His words were then these as followeth : Know all men, he said, 
time's ruins build eternity's mansions. What means this? Desire's 
wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush 
to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark me now. In woman's 
womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that 
passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the post- 
creation. Ovinis caro ad te veniet. No question but her name is 
puissant who aventried the dear course of our Agenbuyer, Healer and 
Herd, our mighty mother and mother most venerable and Bernardus 
saith aptly that she hath an omnipitentiani deiparae suppUcem, that is 
to wit, an almightiness of petition because she is the second Eve and 
she won us, saith Augustine too, whereas that other, our grandam, 
which we are linked up with by successive anastomosis of navelcords 
sold us by all lock, stock and barrel for a penny pippin. But here is 

90 The Little Review 

the matter now. Or she knew him, that second I say, and was but 
creature of her creature, vergine rnadre figlia di tuo figlio or she knew 
him not and then stands she in the one denial or ignorancy with Peter 
Piscator who lives in the house that Jack built and with Joseph the 
Joiner patron of the happy demise of all unhappy marriages parceque 
M. Leo Taxil nous a dit que qui I'avait rnise dans cette fichue position 
c'etait le sacre pigeon, ventre de Dieu! Entweder transsubstantiality 
oder consubstantiality but in no case subsubstantiality. And all cried 
out upon it for a very scurvy word. A pregnancy without joy, he said, 
a birth without pangs, a body without belmish, a belly without big- 
ness. Let the lewd with faith and fervour worship. With will will 
we withstand, withsay. 

Hereupon Punch Costello dinged with his fist upon the board 
and would sing a bawdy catch Staboo Stabella about a wench that 
was put in pod of a jolly swashbuckler in Almany which he did now 
attack: The first three months she was not well, Staboo, when here 
nurse Quigley from the door angerly bid them hist ye should shame 
you nor was it meet as she remembered them being her mind was to 
have all orderly against lord Andrew came as she was jealous that no 
turmoil might shorten the honour of her guard. It was an ancient 
and a sad matron of a sedate look and christian walking, in habit 
dun beseming her megrins and wrinkled visage, nor did her hortative 
want of it effect for incontinently Punch Costello was of them all 
embraided and they reclaimed him with civil rudeness some and with 
menace of blandishments others whiles all chode with him, a murrain 
seize the dolt, what a devil he would be at, thou chuff, thou puny, 
thou got in the peasestraw, thou chitterling, thou dykedropt, thou 
abortion thou, to shut up his drunken drool out of that like a curse 
of God ape, the good sir Leopold that had for his cognisance the flower 
of quietmargerain gentle, advising also the time's occasion as most 
sacred and most worthy to be most sacred. In Home's house rest 
should reign. 

To be short this passage was scarce by when Master Dixon of 
Mary's in Eccles, goodly grinning, asked young Stephen what was 
the reason why he had not cided to take friar's vows and he answered 
him obedience in the womb, chastity in the tomb but involuntary 

The Little Re vie IV 91 

poverty all his days. Master Lenehan at this made return that he had 
heard of those nefarious deeds and how, as he heard hereof counted, 
he had besmirched the lily virtue of a confiding female which was 
corruption of minors and they all intershowed it too, waxing merry 
and toasting to his fathership. But he said very entirely it was clean 
contrary to their suppose for he was the eternal son and ever virgin. 
Thereat mirth grew in them the more and they rehearsed to him his 
curious rite of wedlock for the disrobing and deflowering of spouses, 
she to be in guise of white and saffron, her groom in white and grain, 
with burning of nard and tapers, on a bridebed while clerks sung 
kyries and the anthem Ut novetur sexus omnis corporis mysteriiim 
till she was there unmaided. He gave them then a much admirable 
hymen minim by those delicate poets Master John Fletcher and 
Master Francis Beaumont that is in their Maid's Tragedy that was 
writ for a like twining of lovers: To bed, to bed, was the burden of 
it to be played with accompanable concent upon the virginals. Well 
met they were, said Master Dixon, but, harkee, better were they 
named Beau Mont and Lecher for, by my troth, of such a mingling 
much might come. Young Stephen said indeed to his best remem- 
brance they had but the one doxy between them and she of the 
stews to make shift with in delights amorous for life ran very high 
in those days and the custom of the country approved with it. Greater 
love than this, he said, no man hath that a man lay down his wife 
for his friend. Go thou and do likewise. Thus, or words to that 
efiEect, saith Zarathustra, sometime regious professor of French letters 
to the university of Oxtail nor breathed there ever that man to whom 
mankind was more beholden. Bring a stranger within thy tower 
it will go hard but thou wilt have the secondbest bed. Orate, fratres, 
pro memetipso. And all the people shall say. Amen. Remember, 
Erin, thy generations and they days of old, how thou settedst little by 
me and by my word and broughtest in a stranger to my gates to 
commit fornication in my sight and to wax fat and kick like Jeshurum. 
Therefore hast thou sinned against the light and hast made me, thy 
lord to be the slave of servants. Return, return. Clan Milly: forget 
me not, O Milesian. Why hast thou done this abomination before 
me that thou didst spurn me for a merchant of jalap and didst deny 

92 The Little Review 

me to the Roman and the Indian of dark speech with whom thy 
daughters did lie luxuriously? Look forth now, my people, upon 
the land of behest, even from Horeb and from Nebo and from 
Pisgah and from the Horns of Hatten unto a land flowing with milk 
and money. But thou hast suckled me with a bitter milk: my moon 
and my sun thou hast quenched for ever. And thou hast left me 
alone for ever in the dark ways of my bitterness: and with a kiss of 
ashes hast thou kissed my mouth. This tenebrosity of the interior, 
he proceeded to say hath not been illumined by the wit of the septua- 
gint nor as much as mentioned for the Orient from on high. Which 
brake hell's gates visited a darkness that was foraneous. Assuefac- 
tion minorates atrocities and Hamlet his father showeth the prince 
no blister of combustion. The adiaphane in the moon of life is an 
Egypt's plague which in the nights of prenativity and postmortemity 
is their most proper ubi and quomodo. And as the ends and ultimates 
of all things accords in some mean and measure with their inceptions 
and originals, that same multiplicit concordance which leads forth 
growth from birth accomplishing by a retrogressive metamorphosis 
that minishing and ablation towards the final which is agreeable unto 
nature so is it with our subsolar being. The aged sisters draw us into 
life: we wail, batten, sport, slip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die: over us 
dead they bend. First saved from water of old Nile, among bulrushes, 
a bed of fasciated wattles; at last the cavity of a mountain, an 
occulted sepulchre amid the conclamation of the hillcat and the ossi- 
frage. And as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what 
processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to 
Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see 
from what region of remoteness the whatness of our whoness hath 
fetched his whenceness. 

{to be continued) 

The Reader Critic 

Overheard at an Amy Lowell Lecture 

"Amy Lowell has the drummer method of letting you in on poetry, 
hasn't she? I haven't ever written any, but now I've heard her I think I 
shall. ... If she didn't have so much ease, there would still be ease 
enough, wouldn't there?" 

A Champion 

Of course you see the Dial? Why in the name of literature do they 
start a magazine at this date and follow directly in your footsteps? Can't 
they do any pioneering of their own ? I have followed your progress for 
the past five years and I am very loyal to your little journal. This loyalty 
may prejudice me to the extent of considering the Dial's policy a literary 

[Yes, we have had this called to our attention many times. The Dial's 
contents page often reads like our letter-head; but we don't mind, and they 
seem to like it. There is room in America for any number of efforts of this 
kind. And it is especially fitting, now that we have prohibition, to have a 
de-alcoholized version of the Little Revieiv. — ;7/.] 

The World Moves 
{from the London 'Times) 

In some such fashion as this do we seek to define the element which 
distinguishes the work of several young writers, among whom Mr. James 
Joyce is the most notable, from that of their predecessors. It attempts to 
come closer to life, and to preserve more sincerely and exactly what in- 
terests and moves them by discarding most of the conventions which are 
commonly observed by the novelists. Let us record the atoms as they fall 
upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, how- 
ever disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident 
scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life 
exists more in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly 

94 The Little Review 

thought small. Any one who has read "The Portrait of the Artist as a 
Young Man" or what promises to be a far more interesting work, "Ulysses," 
now appearaing in the Little Review, will have hazarded some theory of 
this nature as to Mr. Joyce's intention. On our part it is hazarded rather 
than affirmed; but whatever the exact intention there can be no question 
but that it is of the utmost sincerity and that the result, difficult or unpleasant 
as we may judge it, is undeniably distinct. In contrast to those whom we 
have called materialists Mr. Joyce is spiritual; concerned at all costs to 
reveal the flickerings of that inermost flame which flashes its myriad mes- 
sages through the brain, he disregards with complete courage whatever 
seems to him adventitious, though it be probability or coherence or any other 
of the handrails to which we cling for support when we set our imagina- 
tions free. Faced, as in the Cemetery scene, by so much that, in its restless 
scintillations, in its irrelevance, its flashes of deep significance succeeded by 
incoherent inanities, seems to be life itself, we have to fumble rather 
awkwardly if we want to say what else we wish; and for what reason a 
work of such originality yet fails to compare, for we must take high 
examples, with "Youth" or "Jude the O'bscure." It fails, one might say 
simply, because of the comparative poverty of the writer's mind. But it is 
possible to press a little further and wonder whether we may not refer 
our sense of being in a bright and yet somehow strictly confined apartment 
rather than at large beneath the sky to some limitation imposed by the 
method as well as by the mind. Is it due to the method that we feel neither 
jovial nor magnanimous, but centred in a self which in spite of its tremor 
of susceptibility never reaches out or embraces or comprehends what Is 
outside and beyond? Does the' emphasis laid perhaps didactically upon 
indecency contribute to this efi^ect of the angular and isloated? Or is it 
merely that in any effort of such courage the faults as well as the virtues 
are left naked to the view? In any case we need not attribute too much 
importance to the method. Any method is right, every method is right, 
that expresses what we wish to express. This one has the merit of giving 
closer shape to what we were prepared to call life itself; did not the reading 
of "Ulysses" suggest how much of life is excluded and ignored, and did 
it not come with a shock to open "Tristram Shandy" and even "Pen- 
dennis," and be by them convinced that there are other aspects of life, 
and larger ones into the bargain? 

*'One of the Really Notable Contributions to the English Liter- 
ature of the last three centuries". Theodore Dreiser 



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No. 4 


Ashe of Rings, I. 

Corps et Biens 

The Man in the Brown Coat 


"Ulysses" in Court 


Katrina Silverstaff 

Discussion : 

Sumner versus James Joyce 

Lawrence Atkinson 


Apropos Art and its Trials 

Mr. Rodker and Modern French Poetry 

To Mina Loy 

The Wind-Flowers of Asklepiades 

Hamlet-of-the-Wedding-Ring Else von 

Dada Manifesto 
K The Reader Critic 

Mary Butts 

Louis A r agon 

Sherwood Anderson 

Mark Turbyfill 

Margaret Anderson 

Philippe Soupault 

Djuna Barnes 

Harriet Monroe 

Horace Shipp 

Lawrence Atkinson 

Emmy Sanders 

Muriel Ciolkowska 

John Rodker 

Mary Butts 

Abel Sanders 





Ashe of Rings 

by Mary Butts 

Part I 
Chapter I 

RINGS lay in a cup of turf. A thin spring sun painted its 
stones white. Two rollers of chalk down hung over it; 
midway between their crest and the sea the house crouched 
like a dragon on a saucer of jade. 

In the walled garden behind the house the air was 
filtered from the sea wind and made a mixing bowl for scents, for 
bees, coloured insects, and noisy birds. An old gardener picking 
gooseberries straightened his back to spit. The great drive up which 
the countryside crawled like weakening flies swerved to the right 
where a stream ran into the sea. There the cliffs parted and the 
hurrying sea beat into a round cove full of rocks. The waves rang 
within earshot of the lodge. In storms they covered it with spray. 
There Rings ended and the world began. 

The station fly ground round the corner by the shore. Anthony 
Ashe poked his head out of the window and smelt his strip of beach. 
Half way up the avenue he stopped the cab and got out. 

"That will do, Mouseman, thank you. Good afternoon." 

He passed under the trees whose long buds broke the light and 

The Little Review 

took a footpath across the park. He walked quickly. 

The house has a thousand eyesf He turned his head to the sea 
under their scrutiny till a straggled wood of black pine hid him 
and the path turned red. 

Anthony Ashe of Rings remembered that he should have insured 
the driver's silence — the words had not shaped. But there were no 
words, and tongue slithing out of fashion. A great lord of the world 
would admit that. The house would know already — a small child 
running up the drive with the news. It did not matter. 

"It is said of this place that in the time of Arthur, the legendary 
king of Britain, Morgan le Fay, an enchantress of that period had 
dealings of an inconceivable nature there. Also that it was used 
by druid priests, and even before then as a place for holy and magical 
rites and ceremonies. A battle of the Danes and Saxons was fought 
there. Today the country-people will not approach it at night, not 
the hardiest shepherd. There is a tradition that in the barrow above 
the earthworks is placed a box of bright gold." 

The first Ring raised its thirty feet of turf. A ribbon of chalk 
path ran along its crest, a loop a mile round. Inside was a second wall 
and within that a third. On the plateau above them was a round 
barrow, irrelevantly placed, and a dewpond full of mud. Behind 
the pond and barrow there was a grove, ragged trees exceedingly tall, 
pines and beeches, knit at the feet with hazel and bramble and fern. 
On its skirt a pleasant wood, its centre a saggy tricket full of white 
marsh grass. Year in, year out, the wind rang in its crest with the 
noise of a harp. 

From these rings and this grove depended the fantastic house, 
and the generations called Ashe which were born there and pattered 
through its hall and bright passages like leaves. The triple circle 
was the sole device on their shield, represented from the hatchment 
of their dead to the coral and bells each baby shook and chewed. 
An old drawing represented the Rings come down from their hill and 
sitting like an extinguisher upon the house. It had been calculated 

The Little Review 

that allowing for all projections the house would fit exactly into the 
roots of the wood. 

"A British camp, but of pre-British — possibly neolithic — origin, 
used by the Romans, a refuge for Celt and then for the Saxon, a 
place of legend and consequent aversion to the countryside ever since, 
it is well that so interesting an historic site should have remained 
in the preservation of so ancient a family." 

Anthony Ashe stamped his arms on the presentation copy of these 
sentiment and knew better. The Rings preserved //////. His son 
Julian had died, and that night he had gone up to them a blind beast. 
After these years in the East, in Russia, he had come back, without 
mate, without heir, to present his accounts and their deficit. 

He went through the gap in the first rampart, crossed the fosse, 
and mounted the white chalk steps over the second ring, and the 
third. The wind ran along them shivering, and a thistle tapped his 
boot. He climbed the barrow, sat on it, and looked back down the 
valley to his house. 

The Rings kept the wide valley head. From them a road, green 
white and faint ran into a birchwood, and through the delicate trees 
to a door in the kitchen garden wall. Thus no one but shepherds 
came to the Rings except through Rings. At the valley head the 
road was lost in a powdering of flints. 

Thick white smoke rose from two chimneys below. The fire 
was lit in the library and in his dressing-room. The news had come. 
He dragged at his short beard with his knees till his chin ached. 
There must be children. And for that some strong girl. His name 
would obtain one. What was left of his life could be given to 
her training. A lively sacrifice to this place. It did not matter 
whom, rd be daft to refuse him, the laird o Cockpeiu An old tune. 
That's it. Soon to find. Easy to keep. But a stale business. There 
was revenge. What had been a duty would remain one. The carved 
bed frightened them? Chinese. The Imperial Court. A girl slung 
across the back of the chief Eunuch. Left to crawl up from the 
foot of the dragon-bed. Would Clavel like the job? . . . All the 
solemn county to placate. Cruets. 

Oh God! let me see it through. Rings, it's been a labour fol- 

The Little Review 

lowing through the centuries your eternal caprice. It comes again. 
I don't doubt that it will come again. ... I do not know what 
it is. . . . To every Ashe in turn it happens. . . . You . . . 
sinff, and singing in your glory move. . . . 'Julian — my son 

A specialist's undertaking. The things that one foregoes. The 
feather in Rings cap. You could cover a broader skull. My old 
head aches with you. 

He wrote with his stick upon a patch of chalk. Anthony Ashe 
— 1892 — Iste perfecit opus. 

**I must go down and see about that child." He stood up reset- 
ting his gray top hat. A breath fluttered through the tree tops and 
ran through the grey hair fringes on the back of his skull. He shook 
his head. 

"Caprice — Caprice — stop tickling my neck. I tell you one 
thing. Not one of the bitches who want it shall have it. Their 
virginities can wither on them. Once I'm dead they can go for her. 
I'm an old man. The strain needs crossing. That's it. Dance 
round. Tickle my chin. So Julian wasn't your fancy. ... If 
I stopped calling you pretty women Lesbian dryads — I couldn't stand 
it. Is that why he died. Did he see in you what I dare not see? 
So that he died. . . . Good night, sweet prince. You were a 
young dog to turn up your nose at the pretty ladies of Rings H.U. 

"I suppose I had better go in?" He ran down the side of the 
barrow and walked into the wood. A light shell of turf, and spring- 
ing needles. Then mud curled over the toes of his boots. A spring- 
ing bramble reversed its hooks across his nose. The blood dripped 
quickly through the thin skin. He controlled his fury. Another 
curled across his waistcoat. He loosed each hook in turn. High up 
the wind sang with seraphic lightness, a transparent feather flat- 
tened into the crown of the gray top hat. With lovely lightness the 
wind fell, the last sigh ran down the shafts and scattered in minute 
touches. . . . He thrust on slowly into the clearing where there 
was a large stone. 

Light women. Light women.- Rings whores. On this rock I 
have built my church. He stood five minutes with greedy eyes. Then 

The Little Review 

he struck through and hurried from the wood, over the rampart and 
down the rabbit-darting hill. 

Chapter II 

The library had thirty-two lancet windows to enclose a quarter- 
ing of Ashe. At the east end in the wall's angle seven stairs led 
up to a round room, the floor of a tower called Rings Root. Anthony 
Ashe ran up. He peered at the dim carved panels like a man inside 
a barrel. The sun lay in ochre strips on the floor's deep brown glass. 
Across each window the sea sparkled, but no breeze followed througli 
the great depth of stone. A fire of fir-cones charred to a chalk-red 
ash. A chair was placed at the third window, its arms finished with 
dolphin's heads. He stretched and straddled in his quintessence of 
privacy, a handsome daimon inside a Chinese ball. The room was 
in the heart of Rings. There Ursula Ashe had declared herself a 
witch. Then there appeared at uncertain times a sphere of pure 
light. On the wall hung a lead hourglass filled with scarlet sand. 
He reversed it and sat down at the open cabinet. He drew a trail of 
little beasts, cats, cows, occasionally birds, but the head of each was 
that of a maiden of the place. 

"The Landlady's girl at the Crow. God of Rings, we might d-j 
worse. She'd fill the gilt cradle, and the oak cradle, and the ivory 
box that held the Italian brat." He looked up at the red trickle. 

"Do it by the alphabet. A for Anne — Anne Avebury. Apple 
cheeks. She's a sweet maid. I like her too well. Let her keep her 
innocence. B. D. Damnation. Deisdie — Doris Benison of Phares. 

"H — there's Hilaria Lynde — napie's the best part of her. L 
J — Jocelyn — bad little bitch that. K. L. N. M. Marion Mangester. 
God forbid — Muriel Butler. What made me think? They live at 
Gulltown. Blind father, black satin mother. Sprigged muslin girls 
— two. What's a name. She's neutral. She'd do. Body like a 
tree — head like a daffodil — the name — obscene word — Mavis, May, 
Millicent. Oh, Christ. Melitta, that's. better. Melitta Ashe." The 
sands ran out. 

"A frill of saffron muslin, goffered small. Nancy would do it. 

The Little Review 

You ask her, Ver?" 

"Did he pay you much attention?" 

"They say he's engaged to Norah Clancy, but it's a secret — " 

"Then don't mention it." 

"Poor young man. I pity him if it's true." 

"He is old enough to know his own mind. I believe it's a case. 
Haven't you finished. Mother wants us to go shopping — " 

"If I meet the Morton boy I shall ask him." 

'Muriel, that would be abominably inquisitive." 

"Ver, Ver, what else is there to do? What else is there to do?" 

"Look here, young lady, do you want to become Mrs. Ashe or 
don't you." 

"You know — Anthony, you know — " 

"Then you will not be called Muriel. When you understand 
things rather more, you will know why. You shall be called Melitta, 

"Very well. Then I shall call you Tony. Droit du seigneur." 

"As you like, puss. Now you had better find out what Melitta 

* * * 

Gulltown hung on a cliff — white house hung with flowers on 
a white cliff. A breeding place for fishermen and shepherds form 
the downs, there was also a snail's nest of little gentry hanging on one 
another. An incredible honour had fallen on Muriel, elder of the 
sisters. The greatest of the country lords had ridden to her house, 
and in nine words to her father had bespoken her. 

"Tell her that I will come for her answer to-morrow. Give 
her these roses. Tell her I will wait a week longer if she wishes." 

She had not seen the scarlet sands run out, nor a piece of paper 
covered with sketches that half burnt had lit his cigar. M — stood 
for mandril and B — for bitch. 

A ripe virgin, she wept into her Tennyson and combed her 
rich hair. 

"Ver, how can I? Ver, what shall I do?" 

"Ask yourself Muriel. You like him, you esteem him. Do 

The Little Review 

you love him?" 

"I cannot believe it's true," 

"Marriage is holy. Don't forget. It cannot be undone." 

"Mistress of Rings." 

"The wife of Mr. Ashe. Who could have believed that when 
poor Julian dragged him over for tennis it would ever come to this? 
He was very kind to me." 

"So he was to us all." A look. What of it? I have done this. 

"How shall I manage that marvellous house." 

"You mean to accept him?" 

"Accept him. Oh yes, yes, yes. Refuse Rings?" 

"My dear Muriel — remember — you are not marrying his estate, 
you are marrying Mr. Ashe." 

"Who marries Ashe marries Rings. You silly woman. Don't 
you know that?" 

Her eyes crawled over her sister, scissor-point to scare the vir- 
gin, mark her plain as the adulteress. Vera looked steadily over her 
sister's -shoulder. 

"Have you thought. There may be babies — that would make 
UF> — " 

"Children — I hope not — I mean — I don't quite know. It's a 
nasty subject. Oh I wish Mr. Ashe had never called." 

"Darling sister, forgive me. Tell me. Was there ever any feeling 
between you and poor Julian?" 

Wire between brain and brain. Thought running like a mouse. 

"Never. Never. Never. Who has been saying so abominable 
a thing? — It is is a lie — I am marrying his father. That will show 

"Dear, you mustn't. And as to your marrying Mr. Ashe be- 
cause you imagine that people — " 

"What do you mean by it then?" 

"I only thought." 

Wind bitten flowers nodding behind the daffodil's head. But 
she was going to marry the father. Her sewing fell ofi her lap. 
She kicked it. Never sew again. 

"I don't mean to be cross. People are cruel. But I know 

10 The Little Review 

you'll believe me," 

"We'll never speak of it again." 

"We won't because there is nothing to speak of. Can't I rely 
on my own sister to believe that?" 

Chapter III 

In the well of the library, her eyes satiated with the coat armour 
she could not read, Melitta Ashe summoned her courage. It did 
not come as an elemental to the word of power, as angel, socratic 
daimon, a noble beast. She urged, she whimpered. Her bully com- 
mands and resentful sensual girl. Una mounted her lion. Anthony 
Ashe came down the seven stairs. 

"I would not strike a woman with a flower, but what am I 
to do to you if you poke your brassy head into my room?" 
"How am I to know if the servants do their work?" 
"There is no need. They know their work. Part of. which 
is to tidy the room and leave me alone." 

"Where is the crystal ball you promised to show me?" 
"Ursula's. I have it. Do you want to understand jewels?" 
"I thought that one saw pictures — and the future — and things." 
"Go to any Bond Street hag for that." 
"Tell me about your great-great-grandmother." — 
"Ursula Ashe?" He led her to a seat and placed a footstool. 
A snake was carved on it, and reared in loops about a bee-skep. 
Her feet shifted in their lace stockings. 

"\ou spoke of Ursula — she was earlier. It was she who brought 
into prominence the practice of magic to which our family has always 
been liable." 

To Melitta the slow pencils the sun laid across the floor moved 

"She travelled to Italy. She lived here as a girl. She came 
back, you can imagine the contacts. Up there a keep her book. 
Every Ashe in his turn lives to read it. None of us have done so 
entirely. I no more than the rest. I sometimes dream about it. 
If you live here long, you will dream." 

The Little Review 11 

"Is it in cipher?" 

"In part." 

"Does it make nonsense?" 

"No. Part is in reference to an occult book, the Enchiridion 
of a Pope. To us conventional hocus pocus. Then a diary full of 
morbid aond profound psychology^ Then a section in cipher which, 
so far, no one has read." 

"What was she like?" 

"Her son destroyed her portrait. He was on Cromwell's side. 
He saw chalked on his bedroom door a curse because of the whore- 
doms of thy mother Jezabel arid her witchcrafts. He cut off his 
hair, turned the gilt chapel her Italians had built her to celebrate the 
black mass into a still room, and celebrated the beheading of Charles 
instead. Plus ca change." 

"Oh how dreadful." 

"But romantic, girl, romantic. I should have thought romantic 
enough even for you." 

"But to behead King Charles, it was a crime. He iiothituj 
common did or mean. I've loved that verse. And you speak as 
though it were any common execution." 

"My dear silly girl." 

Over the house through the sparkling air dropped a bronze 
note as a man might fall bound, upright down a well. Within the 
house followed a burr, a tinkle, a humming, breaking with cross 
beats into the same cadence. 

She sat still. 

"Can you feel," said Anthony Ashe, "now time is made sound 
and we listen to it, and are outside it. Have you thought what it 
is to be outside time. Turn again, little Melitta." 

He took her on his knee. 

"Melitta, Paphian, 

Immortal Courtesan, 

Virgin Mother — I'm sorry, but there are times when every 
Ashe is obliged to make a verse." 

But it sounds — it sounds." 

"Like the Ephesian Artemis. She of the Hundred Breasts." 

12 T he Lit tie Review 

"But Anthony, it is coarse, and disrespectful to me as your wife." 

His fine hand smoothed away his sneer. 

"Try to understand." Silence. "Do you not understand the 
link between yourself and a great love goddess — the type of all things 
which a woman is or may become?" 

She wriggled and sprang down from his knee. 

"I've been trying to tell you all the morning. And you make it 
harder with every dreadful thing you say. I am going to have a 
child. I know I am going to have a child. 

"And there is something vile about this house. I don't know 
what the things are in it. 1 feel its memories watching me. 

"It is much too beautiful. Only wicked people would have cared 
about them so much. 

"I don't know how you can sit there. Don't you care for what 
IS going to happen to me?" 

"What, my dear little fool, do you suppose I married you for?" 

She ran out wailing. 

"Take it quietly, it's all in nature. My God, does she want 
every servant in the place to know her condition?" 

She was gone and into the room rolled the sun. A crowned globe, 
a poppy head burst, scattered, it enriched the gilt and the glass and 
the waxed floor the colour of old beer. Out side the birds struck 
up and the bees thundered. The letters on the books sparked, his 
cigarette lit at a puff. He was comforted. If he had laughed her. 
out it was to give the room its turn. Why didn't she meet its 
challenge? It could be hers. He remembered. What? had he not 
got him a mate? Rings saw nothing but the soul. This pink and 
white shepherdess not three months married raised her moralities. . . . 

There had been the station cabman on the drive. Situations 
which cannot be met. Dealings with one's inferiors. "Lord I thank 
thee that I am not — " 

And to his estate aloud — "O thou delight of the world, may 
my child be equally delightful to thee." He surrendered himself. 
The long glittering room blessed him. He climbed that dais which 
enclosed the north side and half the west wall and went out to look 
for Melitta. 

T he Little Review 13 

On the valley path she struggled with the sun. The sphere 
which had broken — bubbled in the house — shot out and beat her 
with golden rods. The turf closed round empty shells. The path 
was sharp with flints, the heat like an army with banners. Get up. 
High, ever so high. Up there over the earth-works there will be 
a cradle, long grass and clean and light.. Only sun and butterflies, 
and over the rampart a peep into a world like tea-things set out on 
a lawn, all the way over to GuUtown she was a great lady now. 
She despised Gulltown. She was ashamed to remember 
Gulltown. Her obscure innitiation was concluded. By a process 
equally misunderstood she was to produce a child. A long way to 
the top of the hill. Of course. That was why the place was called 
Rings. Mrs. Ashe of Rings. They belonged to her. One might put 
a summerhouse there, and have the stones picked out of the path. 

People were coming to lunch. Just time to let the wind blow 
through her hair. Wear a string of yellow topaz. Not round her 
neck. Slung across. On a white gown. Pretend to be ill. No 
good. She would make excuses and cry. He would never do any- 
thing he did not want to. Horrid, horrid insolent old man. How 
did he have his merry son? Wicked thought. We're married. We're 
married. Till death do us part. It will part us. Not for years and 
years. It was a long way to the breeze. Anthony Ashe found her 
quiet on the grass. 

"The sun was making a burning glass of your hair." 

"Was it." 

"Aren't you coming back to lunch?" 

"I suppose so." 

"Who would like to go to the South of France this winter?" 

"Monte Carlo?" 

"If you insist?" 

"Ought I to — when — Anthony, don't laugh at me like that." 

"Don't cry at me like that then with greed in your eyes 

Coming? Don's forget the topazes on your dress?" 


"On white mind " 

Later in the day. "What made you run up there?" 

14 T he Lit tie Review 

"Do you know that if it were not for that place there would 
be no Rings. And no Ashe of Rings." 

"I don't understand." 

"That you are my wife — and your life is bound up with the 
i'fc on that hill. Your child's life will be bound up with a life out- 
side your own. Like the mother of Meleager." 

"It sounds heathen. I don't understand." 

"You must become a brave woman. You must learn. You 
must be a brave woman. Before we go abroad I will take you up 

- "Oh Anthony — " 

"Ursula Ashe would be carried up there to be delivered of her 
children — " 

"Because your people were as hard as bark and as wicked as 
the globe. Why do you expect me — " 

"That's better. That's my brave girl." 

"I don't konw. They seemed so high, up and away from the 
pettiness of the world." 

(To be continued) 

Corps et Biens 

by Louis Aragon 

Corps perdu 

AQUOI passez-vous votre temps 
Les jongleurs apres chaque tour essuient leurs mains dans Li 
Et moi la tete vide 

je vais dormir au sein d'autres blancheurs ou regne avec le grand 
balancement des chiens de mer 
cette nacre dont les regards font mourir 
A quoi bon tourner dans le monde Ecureuil du petit matin. 
On ne peut pas sortir de I'horizon cercle des bras prison nouee 
Encore une fois le rire atroce et la chevelure tout a coup dressee 
Mes doigts mes doigts Comme il est tard 
Tout sombre 

La nuit n'est pourtant pas si noire 
On a beau pousser le mur de la main I'air ne vient pas 
J'ai soif 


C'est 1 'amour 



Tu chantes? Ou ton regard est-il parti? 
Ce n'est pas le moment de chanter. 

16 T he Little Review 



|-H Ce soir les mots viennent de loin. 
-■ — ^ D'un pays de terrasses. 
— Te tairas-tu? 
Nos fronts sur le linge comme des soleils couchants tombent avec 

le cadavre des caresses. 
— Tu me tues. 
Ta bouche me suit: suis-je done un charmeur de serpents? Dans 

ta prunelle il n'y a rien. 

Rien si ce n'est la fin de tout. 
— Le son de ta voix m'enerve." 



LEVE-TOI, marche. 
Voyons, il ne s'agit pas d'un voyage. Promene-toi comme une 
personne a travers la chambre. 
Bien. Reviens maintenant. 


del de lit 

LE poete chante. 
"Comme il fait chaud ce soir!" 
Tout-a-coup un air passe par la tete. 
"Ecoute I'oiseau de ma poitrine. 
— Mes paupieres sont des pierres a moulin, mon amour: 

Tout meurt excepte ce grand regard que tu poses sur mon epaule 

comme une aile de navire. 
C'est triste a dire. 
— Comment ? 
— Penser donne le vertige." 

The Little Review 17 


Mer d' Huile 

SII'^OUS ne parlons pas, c'est que nous n'avons rien a dire. 
Nous sommes longs. Le feu s'cteint. 
L'homme et la femme cote a cote ont perdu -la notion du temps. 
Quelle heure est il? 
J'ai oublie ma montre. 


Point fnoi't 

II fait lourd. 
Ecarte un peu le temps qui il fait, tes cheveux lourds 
sur ma figure. 
Bonne nuit. 


Sommeil de plonib 

GELA dure. 
II n'y aura pas de lendemain. 
La main que je tiens en reve ne me me'nera nulle part, 

II ou elle dort. 

L'armoire a glace veille encore. 

The Man in the Brown Coat 

by Sherwood Aiiderson 

NAPOLEON went down into a battle riding on a 
Alexander went down into a battle riding on a 
General Grant got off his horse and walked in a wood. 
General Hindenburg stood on a hill. The moon came up 
out of a clump of bushes. 

I am writing a history of the things men do. I have written three 
such histories, and I am but a young man. Already I have written 
three hundred, four hundred thousand words. 

My wife is somewhere in this house where for hours I have been 
sitting and writing. She is a tall woman with black hair turning a 
little grey. Listen, she is going softly up a flight of stairs. All day 
she goes softly, doing the housework in our house. 

I came to this town from another town in the state of Iowa. My 
father was a mender of shoes. 1 worked my way through college 
and became a historian. We own this house in which I sit. This is 
my room in which I work. Already I have written three histories 
of peoples. I have told how states were formed and battles fought. 
You may see my books standing straight up on the shelves of libraries. 
They stand up like sentries. 

I am tall like my wife but my shoulders are stooped. Although T 
v/rite boldly I am a shy man. I like being in this room alone with 
the door locked. There are many books here. Nations march back 
and forth in the books. It is quiet here but in the books a 
thunderinji jjoes on. 

The Little Review 19 

Napoleon rides down a hill and into a battle. 

General Grant walks in a wood. 

Alexander rides down a hill and into a battle. 

IVIy wife has a serious, almost stern look. In the afternoon she 
leaves our house and goes for a walk. Sometimes she goes to stores, 
sometimes to visit a neighbour. There is a yellow house opposite our 
house. My wife goes out a side door and passes along our street 
between our house and the yellow house. 

The window before my desk makes a little framed place like a pic- 
ture. The yellow house across the street makes a solid background 
of yellow. 

The side door of our house bangs. There is a moment of waiting. 
My wife's face floats across the yellow background of the picture. 

General Pershing rode down a hill and into a battle. 
Alexander rode down a hill and into a battle. 

Little things are growing big in my mind. The window before mv 
desk makes a little framed place like a picture. Every day I wait 
staring. I wait with an odd sensation of something impending. 
My hand trembles. The face that floats through the picture does 
something I don't understand. The face floats, then it stops. It 
goes from the right hand side to the left hand side, then it stops. 

The face comes into my mind and goes out. The face floats in my 
mind. The pen falls from my fingers. The house is silent. The 
eyes of the floating face are turned away from me. 

My wife is a girl who came here to this town from a town in Ohio. 
We employ a servant but often my wife sweeps the floors and some- 
times she makes the bed in which we sleep together. We sit together 
in the evening but I do not know her. I cannot shake myself out of 
myself, I wear a brown coat and I cannot come out of my coat. I 

20 The Little Review 

cannot come out of myself. My wife is very silent and speaks softly 
but she cannot come out of herself. 

My wife has gone out of the house. She does not know that I know 
every little thought of her life. I know about her and what she 
thought when she was a child and walked in the street of an Ohio 
town. I have heard the voices of her mind. I have heard the little 
voices. I heard the voices crying that night long ago when she was 
suddenly overtaken with passion and came running to crawl into my 
arms where she lay trembling. I heard the voices of her mind talk- 
ing as we sat together on the first evening after we were married and 
had moved into this house. 

It would be strange if I could sit here, as I am doing now, while 
my own face floated across the picture made by the yellow house 
and the window. It would be strange and beautiful if I could meet 
my wife, come into her presence. 

The woman whose face has just floated across my picture knows 
nothing of me. I know nothing of her. She has gone off along the 
street. The voices of her mind are talking. I am here in this room 
as alone as ever any man God made. 

It would be strange and beautiful if I could float my face across a 
picture, if my floating face could come into her presence, if it could 
come into the presence of any man or any woman. That would be 
a strange and beautiful thing to have happen. 

Napoleon went down into a battle riding on a horse. 

General Grant went into a wood. 

Alexander went down into a battle riding on a horse. 

Some day I shall make a testament unto myself. 

I'll tell you what — sometimes the whole face of this world floats in a 
human face in my mind. The unconscious face of the world stops 
and stands still before me. 

The Little Review 2\ 

Why do I not say a word out of myself to the others? Why, in all 
our life together, have I never been able to break through the wall 
to my wife? Already I have written three hundred, four hundred 
thousand words. Are there no words for life? Some day I shall 
make a testament unto myself. 


by Mark Turbyfill 

Tjjg crested tulips 
By the white pebble path 
Array themselves as chattering birds of paradise. 
Their flame streaks on iridescent surfaces 
Shock the great space of waiting in these thin days. 
A derisive little wind 

Executes pas de chat across the shaking buds, 
And my eyes play tricks on my ears, 
And I hear 

The piercing, deafening, flaunting, condemnation 
Of vivid angry birds. 

"Ulysses'' in Court 

by Margaret Anderson 

THE trial of the LUtle Review for printing a masterpiece is 
now over — lost, of course, but if any one thought there 
was a chance of our winning ... in the United States 
of America. 

It is the only farce I ever participated in with any 
pleasure. I am not convivial, and I am usually bored or outraged by 
the state of farce to which unfarcical matters must descend. This 
time I had resolved to watch the proceedings with the charming idea 
of extracting some interest out of the fact that things proceed as one 
knows they wlil proceed. There is no possible interest in this fact, but 
perhaps one can be enlivened by speculating as to whether they will 
swerve the fraction of an inch from their predestined stupidity. 

No, this cannot engage my interest: I have already lived througli 
the stupidity. So how shall I face an hour in a court room, before 
three judges who do not know the difference between James Joyce 
and obscene postal cards, without having hysterics, or without trying 
to convince them that the words "literature" and "obscenity" can not 
be used in conjunction any more than the words "science" and "im- 
morality" can. With what shall I fill my mind during this hour of 
redundant human drama? Ah — I shall make an effort to keep en- 
tirely silent, and since I have never under attack achieved this simple 
feat, perhaps my mind can become intrigued with the accomplishment 
of it. 

It is a good idea. There are certain civilized people who pro- 
ceed entirely upon the principle that to protect one's self from attack 
is the only course of action open to a decent and developed human 
being. My brain accepts this philosophy, but I never act upon it — • 
any more than Ezra Pound does. I am one of those who feels some 
obscure need to have all people think with some intelligence upon some 

But I am determined, during this unnecessary hour in court, to 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 23 

adopt the philosophy of self-preservation. I will protect my sensi- 
bilities and my brain cells by being unhearing and untalkative. 

The court opens. Every one stands up as the three judges enter. 
Why must I stand up as a tribute to three men who wouldn't under- 
stand my simplest remark? (But this is reasoning, and I am deter- 
mined to be vacuous.) 

Our attorney, Mr. John Quinn, begins pertinently by telling 
who James Joyce is, what books he has written, and what are his 
distinguished claims as a man of letters. The three judges quite 
courteously but with a bewildered impatience inform him that they 
can't see what bearing those facts have on the subject — they "don't 
care who James Joyce is or whether he has written the finest books in 
the world"; their only function is to decide whether certain passages 
of "Ulysses" (incidentally the only passages they can understand) 
violate the statute. — (Is this a commentary on ''Ul3'sses" or on the 
minds of the judges?) But I must not dream of asking such a ques- 
tion. My function is silence. Still, there is that rather fundamental 
matter of who is the author:^ Since Jrt is the person — / But this is 
a simplicity of logic — they would think I had gone mad. 

Mr. Quinn calls literary "experts" to the stand to testify that 
"Ulysses" in their opinion would not corrupt our readers. The opin- 
ions of experts is regarded as quite unnecessary, since they know only 
about literature but not about law: "Ulysses" has suddenly become 
a matter of law rather than of literature — I grow confused again : 
but I am informed that the judges are being especially tolerant to 
admit witnesses at all — that such is not the custom in the special 
sessions court. 

Mr. John Cowper Powys testifies that "Ulysses" is too obscure 
and philosophical a work to be in any sense corrupting. (I wonder, 
as Mr. Powys takes the stand, whether his look and talk convey to 
the court that his mind is in the habit of functioning in regions where 
theirs could not penetrate: and I imagine the judges saying: "This 
man obviously knows much more about the matter than we do — the 
case is dismissed." Of course I have no historical basis for expecting 
such a thing. I believe it has never happened. 

Mr. Philip Moeller is the next witness to testify for the Little 

24 The Little Review 

Review, and in attempting to answer the jxidges' questions with intelli- 
gence he asks if he may use technical terminology. Permission being 
given he explains quite simply that the objectionable chapter is an 
unveiling of the subconscious mind, in the 

Freudian manner, and that he saw no possibility of these revelations 
being aphrodiasic in their influence. The court gasps, and one of the 
judges calls out, "Here, here, you might as well talk Russian. Speak 
plain English if you want us to understand what you're saying." Then 
they ask Mr. Moeller what he thinks would be the effect of the ob- 
jectionable chapter on the mind of the average reader. Mr. Moeller 
answers: "1 think it would mystify him." "Yes, but what would 
be the effect?" (I seem to be drifting into unconsciousness / Ques- 
tion — What is the effect of that which mystifies? Answer — Mystifi- 
cation. But no one looks either dazed or humourous, so I decide that 
they regard the proceedings as perfectly sensible.) 

Other witnesses (among them the publishers of the Dial, who 
valiantly appeared at both hearings) are waived on the consideration 
of their testimony being the same as already given. Mr, Quinn then 
talks for thirty minutes on the merits of James Joyce's work in terms 
the court can understand: "Might be called futurist literature"; 
"neither written for nor read by school girls" ; "disgusting in portions, 
perhaps, but no more so than Swift, Rabelais, Shakespeare, the Bible" ; 
"inciting to anger or repulsion but not to lascivious acts"; and as a 
final bit of suave psychology (nauseating and diabolical), aimed at 
that dim stirring of human intelligence which for an instant lights up 
the features of the three judges — "I myself do not understand 
'Ulysses' — I think Joyce has carried his method too far in this ex- 
periment "... 

"Yes," groans the most bewildered of the three, "it sounds to me 
like the ravings of a disordered mind — I can't see why any one would 
want to publish it." 

("Let me tell you why" — I almost leap from my chair. "Since 
I am the publisher it may be apropos for me to tell you why I have 
wanted to publish it more than anything else that has ever been offered 
to me. Let me tell you why I regard it as the prose masterpiece of 
my generation. Let me tell you what it's about and why it was 

The Little Review 


written and for whom it was written and why you don't understand it 
and why it is just as well that you don't and why you have no right 
to pit the dulness of 3'our brains against the fineness of mine " . .) 

(I suddenly feel as though I had been run over by a subway 
train. My distinguished co-publisher is pounding me violently in 
the ribs: "Don't try to talk; don't put yourself into their hands" — 
with that look of being untouched by the surrounding stupidities 
which sends me into paroxysms. I smile vacuously at the court.) 

Mr. Quinn establishes, apparently to the entire satisfaction of the 
judges, that the offending passages of "Ulysses" will revolt but not 
contaminate. But their sanction of this point seems to leave them 
vaguely unsatisfied and they state, with a hesitation that is rather 
charming, that they feel impelled to impose the minimum fine of $100 
and thus to encourage the Society for the Prevention of Vice. 

This decision establishes us as criminals and we are led to an 
adjoining building where another bewildered official takes our finger- 
prints ! ! ! * 

Owing to editorial mediation as 
to what passages must be deleted 
from the next instalment of 
"Ulysses" Episode XIV will not 
be continued until next month. 
M. C. A. 

*In this welter of crime and lechery, both Mr. Sumner and the judges 
deserve our thanks for one thing: our appearance seemed to leave them with- 
out any doubts as to our personal purity. Some of my "friends" have con- 
sidered me both insane and obscene, I believe, for publishing Mr. Joyce. 


by Philippe Sotipault 

UNE enveloppe dechiree agrandit ma chambre. 
Je bouscule mes souvenirs 
On part. 
J'avais oublie ma valise. 


L'AIRON tisse les fils telegraphiques 
et la source chante la meme chanson 
Au rendezvous des cochers I'aperitif est orange 
mais les mecaniciens, des locomotives ont les yeux blancs 
la dame a perdu son sourive dans les bois. 


TOUTE la ville est entree dans ma chambre 
les arbres disparaissaient 
et le soir s'attache a mes doights 
Les maisons deviennent des transatlantiques 
le bruit de la mer est monte jusqu'a moi 
nous arriverons dans deux jours au Congo 
j'ai franchi I'Equateur et le Tripique du Capricorne 
je sais qu'il y a des cottines innombrables 
Notre Dame cache le Gaurizanker et les aurores boreales 

la nuit tombe goutte a goutte 

j 'attends les heures 

Donnez moi cette citromade et la dernier cigarette 

je reorendroi a Paris. 

T h e L i 1 1 1 e Re V i e w 27 


J'apercus le souvenir de ta voix se pencher 
IVIon corps bercait mes pensees 
les fills telegraphiques s'enfuyaient 

Le heurt d'un caillon sonna midi. 

Katrina Silver staff 

by Djuna Barnes 

^^"W" "W' T" E have eaten a great deal, my friend, against the 

^/ m/ She was a fine woman, hard, magnificent, cold, 

▼ T Russian, married to a Jew, a doctor on the East 

You know that kind of woman, pale, large, with a heavy oval 

A woman of 'material' — a lasting personality, in other words, 
a 'fashionable' woman, a woman who, had she lived to the age of 
forty odd, would have sat for long fine hours by some window, over- 
looking some desolate park, thinking of a beautiful but lazy means 
to an end. 

She always wore large and stylish hats, and beneath them her 
mouth took on a look of pain at once proud, aristocratic and lonely. 

She had studied medicine — but medicine in the interest of ani- 
mals, she was a good horse doctor — an excellent surgeon on the 
major injuries to birds and dogs. 

In fact she and her husband had met in a medical college in 
Russia — she had been the only woman in the class, the only one of 
the lot of them who smiled in a strange, hurt and sarcastic way when 

28 The Little Review 

The men in the class treated her like one of them, that is, they 
had no cringing mannerliness about their approach, they lost no poise 
before her, and tried no tricks as one might say. 

The Silverstaffs had come to America, they had settled on the 
East Side, among 'their own people' as he would say; she never said 
anything when he talked like this, she sat passive, her hands in her 
lap, but her nostrils quivered, and somewhere under the skin of her 
cheek something trembled. 

Her husband was the typical Jewish intellectual, a man with 
stiff short graying hair, prominent intelligent and kindly eyes, rather 
short, rather round, always smelling of Greek salad and carbolic 
acid, and always intensely interested in new medical journals, theories, 

He was a little dusty, a little careless, a little timid, but always 

They had been in America scarcely an eight months before the 
first child was born, a girl, and then following on her heels a boy, 
and then no more children. 

Katrina Silverstaff stopped having her children as abruptly as 
she had begun having them; something complicated had entered her 
mind, and where there are definite complications of the kind that she 
suffered, there are no more children. 

"We have eaten a great deal, my friend, against the day of 
God," she had said that. 

She had said that one night, sitting in the dusk of their office. 
There was something inexpressibly funny in their sitting together in 
this office, with its globe of the world, its lung charts, its weighing 
machine, its surgical chair, and its bowl of ineffectual gold fish. Some- 
thing inexpressibly funny and inexpressibly fecund, a fecundity sup- 
pressed by coldness, and a terrible determination — more terrible in 
that her husband Otto felt nothing of it. 

He was very fond of her, and had he been a little more sensitive 
he would have been very glad to be proud of her. She never became 
confidential with him, and he never tried to overstep this, partly be- 
cause he was unaware of it, and partly because he felt little need of 
a closer companionship. 

The Little Review 29 

She was a fine woman, he knew that ; he never thought to ques- 
tion anything she did, because it was little, nor what she said, because 
it was less; there was an economy about her existence that simply 
forbade questioning. He felt in some dim way, that to criticise at 
all would be to stop everything. 

Their life was typical of the East Side doctor's life. Patients all 
day for him, and the children for her with an occasional call from 
someone who had a sick bird. In the evening they would 
sit around a table with just sufficient food, with just sufficient silver 
and linen, and one luxury ; Katrina's glass of white wine. 

Or sometimes they would go out to dine, to some koscher place, 
where everyone was too friendly and too ugly and too warm, and 
here he would talk of the day's diseases while she listened to the 
music and tried not to hear what her daughter was crying for. 

He had always been a 'liberal,' from the first turn of the cradle. 
In the freedom of the people, in the betterment of conditions, he took 
the interest a doctor takes in seeing a wound heal. 

As for Katerina Silverstaff, she never said anything about it. 
he never knew what she really thought, if she thought at all; it did 
not seem necessary for her to do or say anything, she was fine as she 
was, where she was. On the other hand it never occurred to him that 
she would not hear, with calmness at least, his long dissertations on 

At the opening of this story, Katerina's daughter was a little 
girl of ten, who was devoted to dancing, and who lay awake at 
nights worrying about the shape of her legs, which had already begun 
to swell with a dancer's muscles. 

The boy was nine, thin, and wore spectacles. 

And of course what happened was quite unaccountable. 

A man, calling himself Castillion Rodkin, passed through one 
summer, selling Carlyle's 'Trench Revolution." Among the houses 
where he had left a copy was the house of Otto Silverstaff. 

Katerina had opened the door, the maid was down with the 
measles, and the doctor was busy with a patient, a Jew much revered 
for his poetry, 

30 The Little Review 

She never bought anything of peddlers, and she seldom said 
more than "no thank you." In this case she neither said "thank you," 
nor closed the door — instead she held it open, standing a little aside 
for him to pass, and, utterly astonished, he did pass, waiting behind 
her in the hall for orders. 

"We will go into the study," she said, "my husband is busy." 

"I was selling Bibles last year," he remarked, "but they do not 
go down in this section." 

"Yes," she answered, "I see," and she moved before him into the 
heavy damp parlor which was never unshuttered and which was never 
used. She reached up and turned on one solitary electric light. 

Castillion Rodkin might have been any nationality in the world ; 
this was partly from having travelled in all countries, and also from 
a fluid temperament — little was fixed or firm in him, a necessary 
quality in a salesman. 

Castillion Rodkin was below medium height, thin and bearded 
with a pale, almost white growth of hair. He was peculiarly colour- 
less, his eyes were only a shade darker than his temples, a vague 
color, and very restless. 

She said simply, "We must talk about religion." 

And with an awkwardness unusual to him he asked "Why?" 

"Because," she said in a strained voice, making a hurt gesture, 
"it is so far from me." 

He did not know what to say of course, and lifting one thin 
leg in its white trousers he placed it carefully over the other. 

She \vas sitting opposite him, her head turned a little to one 
side, not looking at anything. "You see," she said presently, "I want 
religion to become out of the reach of the few." 

"Become's a queer word," he said. 

"It is the only word," she answered, and there was a slight irri- 
tittion in. her voice, "because it is so irrevocably for the many." 

"Yes," he said mechanically, and reached up to his beard and 
left his hand there under a few strands of hair. 

"You see," she went on simply, "I can come to the point. For 
me, everything is a lie — I am not telling this to you because I need 
your help, I shall never need help," she said, turning her eyes on his 

The Little Review 31 

understand that from the beginning — " 

-"Beginning," he said in a loud voice suddenly. 

"From the beginning," she repeated calmly, "right from the 
very start, not help but hindrance, I need enough hindrance, a total 
obstacle, otherwise I cannot accomplish it." 

"Accomplish what, madame?" he asked and took his hand from 
under his beard. 

"That is my affair, mine alone, that you must not question, it 
has nothing to do with you, you are only a means to an end." 

And he said, "What can I do for you?" 

She smiled, a sudden smile, and under her cheek something flick- 
ered. "You can do nothing," she said and stood up. "I must always 
do it all — yes, I shall- be your mistress — wait," she said raising her 
hand, and there was anger and pride in her. "Do not intrude now by 
word or sign, but tommorrow you will come to me — that is enough — 
that is all you can do," and in this word 'all' he felt a limit on him- 
self that he had never known before, and he was frightened and dis- 
quieted and unhappy. 

And he came thf next day, cringing a little, fawning, uneasy, and 
she would not see him — she sent word "I do not need you yet," and 
he called again the next day and learned that she was out of town, 
and then one Sunday she was in to him. 

She said quietly to him, as if she were preparing him for a great 
disappointment, "I have deliberately, very deliberately, removed 
remorse from the forbidden fruit," and he was abject suddenly and 

"There will be no thorns for you," she went on in a cold abrupt 
voice. "You will miss that, but do not presume to show it in my 

"Also my floor is not the floor on which you may crawl," she 
continued, "and I do not permit you to suffer while I am in the 
room — and," she added unfastening her brooch slowly and precisely, 
"I dislike all spiritual odours." 

"Are we all strange?" he whispered. 

"It takes more than will to attain to madness." 


32 T he Little Review 

Then she was silent for a while, thinking. 

"I want to suffer," he murmured, and trembled again. . 

"We are all gross at times, but this is not your time." 

"I could follow you into the wilderness." 

"I would not miss you." 

And it was said in a terrible forbidding voice. 

"I suffer as a birthright — I want it to be something more my 
own than that." 

"What are you going to do?" he said. 

"Does one ever destroy oneself who is utterly disinterested?" 

"I don't know." 

Presently she said, "I love my husband — I want you to know 
that, it doesn't matter, but I want you to know that, and that I am 
content with him, and quite happy " 

"Yes," Castillion Rodkin answered and began trembling again, 
holding on to the sides of the bed. 

"But there is something in me," she continued, "that is very 
mournful because it is being." 

He could not answer and tears came to his eyes. 

"There is another thing," she said with abrupt roughness, "that 
I must insist on, that is that you will not insult me by your presence 
while you are in this room." 

He tried to stop his weeping now, and his body grew tense, 

"You see," she continued, "some people drink poison, and some 
take a knife, and others drown, I take you." 

In the very early dawn, she sat up with a strange smile. "Will 
you smoke?" she said, and lit him a cigarette. Then she withdrew 
into herself, sitting on the edge of the mahogany boards, her hands 
in her lap. 

And there was a little ease, and a little comfort in Castillion 
Rodkin, and he turned, drawing up one foot, thrusting his hand 
beneath his beard, slowly smoking his cigarette. 

"Does one regret?" he asked, and the figure of Katrina never 
moved, nor did she seem to hear. 

"You know, you frightened m.e — -last night." he went on, lying 

T h e Li 1 1 le Review 33 

on his back now and looking at the ceiling. "I almost became some- 
thing — something." 

There was a long silence. 

"Shall the beasts of the field and the birds of the air forsake 
thee?" he said gloomily, then brighth'. "Shall any man forsake thee?" 

Katrina Silverstaff remained as she was, but under her cheek 
something quivered. 

The dawn was very near and the street lamps had gone out, a 
milk cart rattled across the square, and passed up a side street. 

"One out of many, or only one?" 

He put his cigarette out, he was beginning to breathe with diffi- 
culty, he was beginning to shiver. 


He turned over, got up, stood on the floor. 

"Is there nothing I can say?" he began, and went a little away 
and put his things on. 

"When shall I see you again?" 

And now a cold sweat broke out on him, and his chin trembled. 


He tried to come toward her, but he found himself near the 
door instead. 

"I'm nothing," he said, and turned toward her, bent slightly; 
he wanted to kiss her feet — but nothing helped him. 

"You've taken everything now, now I cannot feel, I do not suffer 
— " he tried to look at her — and succeeded finally after a long time. 

He could see that she did not know he was in the room. 

Then something like horror entered him. and with a soft swift 
running gait he reached the door, turned the handle and was gone. 

A few days later, at dusk, for his heart was the heart of a dog, 
he came into Katrina's street, and looked at the house. 

A single length of crepe, bowed, hung at the door. 

From that day he began to drink heavily, he got to be quite a 
nuisance in the cafes, he seldom had money to pay, he was a fearless 
beggar, almost insolent, and once when he saw Otto Silverstafif sitting 
alone in a corner, with his two children, he laughed a loud laugh 
and burst into tears. 



Margaret Anderson 

Foreign Editors: 

John Rodker Jules Romains 

Advisory Board 


Sum?2er Versus James Joyce 
by HatTtet Monroe 

I WANT to send a word of cheer for your courage in the fight 
against the Society for the Prevention of Vice. My father was 
a lawyer, and his blood in me longs to carry the battle to the 
Supreme Court of the United States, in order to find out whether 
the Constitution permits the assumption of a self-appointed group of 
citizens, of a restriction of the freedom of the press which only the 
state, through proper legal channels, should have any right even to 
attempt. I wish you a triumphant escape out of their clutches. 

T h e Li 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 35 

Lawrence Atkinson 
by Horace Shipp 


^^rr^HE MADNESS OF THE ARTS" has driven W. R. Titter- 
ton to the columns of the English Review with Part One of a 
metrical diatribe which one suspects will become vitriolic about 
vers libre and abstract painting bj^ Part Three. Truth to tell the arts 
always were mad if the term connotes their continual wandering 
from the watch-fires of tradition into the trackless places of grow- 
ing human consciousness. Sane art is usually shopkeeping — trade in 
beauty: the art school with the courage to open a department de- 
voted to salesmanship will affect an advance both in membership and 
honesty. But the big people in art have usually wandered away 
from the counter just before the professors in literature and the fine 
arts have classified and labeled the goods. 

In this tradition of deserting the traditional, the movement of 
pictorial and sculptural art from the phase of representation to that 
of complete abstraction has been an orderly and inevitable progres- 
sion: orderly and inevitable, because once the principal of subjectivism 
is admitted in art (as it was in the sentimental selectiveness and 
idealism of the romantic paint photographers) it moves quite natur- 
ally through impressionism, post-impressionism, futurism, cubism, 
neo-vorticism, and every other "ism" which yet sleeps in the mind 
of man. 

As Wyndham Lewis questioned the architects, the problem 
always is "Where is your vortex?" So long as a man's art revolved 
around the pleasant portrayal of external appearances truth to those 
appearances and that pleasanteness must be the test. But alwavs 
there had been even among artists the wise who realised that they 
had some more useful task to hand than the making of replicas in 
some dead material of the things of the vital universe. At last, 
however, the tricks of the trade became so obvious that these wise 
concluded that what was not worth doing so well was not worth 
doing at all. 

36 The Little Review 

One remembers a play of Rudolf Besier's: A party of Cockneys 
invade the country; one by one they grow conscious of new 
phenomena; each murmurs, "Cows an' 'orses an' things," the audience 
rocked with laughter. The analogy? Eminent Academicians spend- 
ing their distinguished careers murmuring "Cows an' 'orses an' 
things" in paint (sometimes achieving the final d and the aspirate). 

That is why the new movements matter; that is why abstract 
art and Lawrence Atkinson matter. It is somethmg more than the 
reiteration of the existence of things — it is the assertion of basic 
forces in ^e universe and of basic ideas in the mind of the artist. 
Atkinson's work depicts both and establishes their relationship. Thus 
he deals not in surfaces and the simple facts of optics — appearances — 
hut in form and the known dynamics beneath surfaces. More im- 
portant still, he deals in the merchandise of the mind, which releases 
his conceptions alike from the three dimensional of space and the 
single point of time. That is where the new art, escaping from the 
portrayal of one space at one time into the eternal present and limit- 
less horizon of the human intelligence, can achieve so much. That 
is where it may fail for the recesses of mentality are so remote, so 
-jh ^ unique and individual that there is danger of the artist who depends 

^^^■^(1 ^ no longer upon the safe link of visual appearances, removing his point 
of interest so far as to lose contact altogether with his audience; 
sharing the loneliness of God in looking on his work and seeing 
that it was good. 

Here it is that the search for the symbol commences, and that 
devotion to technique which must always play an important part, 
and which in the case of the old schools had become exalted from 
a means to an end in itself. 

With Atkinson's work the search for a suitable medium of 
communication between his own mind and that of others has led 
him to reject the sophisticated formula of some of the recent schools 
and to depend for his effect upon a use of line, form and colour to 
which generations of race consciousness have given a universal 


Often it is true the complexity of his own mind assumes a power 
of instinctive comprehension in that of his audience which is not 


38 T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 

forthcoming, and the more difficult of his works (particularly the 
pictures) lose their range so that their significance passes over the 
heads of onlookers. 

Recently, however, Atkinson has turned his attention to sculp- 
ture, which by the very nature of the medium tends to broader effects 
and more simple statement than it sister art of painting. The illus- 
trations show phases of Atkinson's plastic work: the one where he 
was expressing himself in a formula practically geometrical, which 
interesting as it was had too great an interest in the mechanical 
structure of its subjects, the other which aimed at expressing an 
idea as nature would have expressed it had she been working in a 
medium of clay or stone — a significant amorphism. So much of the 
recent abstract work in England has tended to be mechanical. 
Granted that much can be achieved with such a means as the piece 
called "In the Beginning" shows. Here the artist has been interested 
in somthing more vital than surface or even structure ; he has endowed 
"Ir the abstract figure — half human, half animal — with a prophetic sense 

I of tragedy. The structural lines are strong and heavy in token of 

the perfection of animal strength. In striking contrast is the inertness 
of head and hand: the hand hanging limply, the head bowed by the 
realisation of good and evil, its melancholy emphasised by the sculp- 
tured pattern. 

It is this emotional value in Atkinson's work which differentiates 
it from so much that has gone hitherto in the name of artistic ab- 
straction. He is not making his appeal from the sophisticated in- 
tellect to intelligence equally sophisticated, but from instinct to the 
instincts — a safer and saner thing in an age run to seed in mere 
cleverness. Occasionally Atkinson himself succumbs to the tempta- 
tion and works out a concept so intellectually that it misses that direct 
appeal and simplicity which was the vital secret of early art. Usually, 
however, he deals with elemental things, simplifying to essentials, 
and choosing lines which have so long spoken to the sub-conscious- 
ness of the race that their message is immediate and effective. 

The picture "Tranquille" with its sense of sunlit peace and the 
expressive lines of the body bowing to an acceptance, the studied 
relationship of the figure to its surroundings, the conventionalised 


40 The Little Review 

blue bands at the top which convey distance and immensity as only 
blue can — these things speak as easily and in a language as generally 
comprehensible as that of any traditional art. 

The later, and I think the most interesting phase of his work 
is that which I have called "significant amorphism" : the sculpture 
which aims at direct expression of ideas in forms which are their 
natural incarnation. "Growth" is a tyical piece of this kind. The 
heavy, simple lines of the earth-base, the vital upward movement 
(harmony achieved by like impulse) the complexity in the later 
stages of development when the lines diverge but are still governed 
by truth to their own relationship to a predestined paralellism and a 
movement back toward the central purpose. 

The three examples will serve. 

An eminent critic writing recently of Atkinson salted his ap- 
preciation with a doubt as to whether the art would ever becom': 
popular. The only art which has ever deserved that name has been 
this basic art which makes its appeal to the instincts and the sub- 
consciousness. That is why I believe that his work will find ac- 
ceptance. He is not working on a basis of appeal merely to the super 
intellectuals but along lines of universal appeal and capable of infinite 
development and expression. 

Apropos art and its trials legal and spiritual, 
by Emmy V. Sandei's 

IF THE puritan were nothing but a puritan and the philistinc 
nothing but a philistine, they would leave the art world alto- 
gether alone — like the navvy, the farmhand, the greengrocer 
and all of that species that claims no relation to art whatever and 
is perfectly contented to remain densely ignorant about such matters 

The trouble starts with "Culture." The sort of culture that 
does claim a relation and professes tender feelings in the direction of 


42 The Little Revi 

art — provided the art in question is of a date anterior to 1900, at the 
latest; and provided there does not cling to it an odour of rebellion 
that not even the museum-smell of time has been able to change into 
an odour of unmixed sanctit} ; and provided it is not too grimly and 
uncompromisingly art alone without the accompaniment or the dis- 
guise of other elements that make it palatable to the cultured. Furth- 
ermore, if very subtle it must have been coarsened ; if very strong it 
must have been emasculated at the hands of professorial Authority 
and must be liable to popularization in print and photograph. All 
these conditions being fulfilled and 1900 given as an extreme. . . . 

Oh, the homes of these art-loving cultured people — where lily- 
like Botticelli Madonnas languish at you over mantel-shelves; where 
you find Rembrandt's mother and Whistler's mother and the 
cathedral of Rheims and Shelley and Beethoven sonatas and a Burne 
Jones and and — the Atlantic Monthly. Oh, the deadness and the 
dullness and the blindness! Oh, the plague of an "appreciation" that 
appreciates in a work of art — whether a temple of the times of 
Rameses the Great or a page of Conrad — everything except the art 
element, the aesthetic vitality of the thing considered. 

This tribe of the cultured approaches an aesthetic phenomenon 
conscientiously equipped with facts, information, standards of com- 
parison, borrowed values, good intentions. There is nothing lacking 
in the outfit — except the one and only 'essential : inner experience. It 
is convinced that it is convinced that A is a great poet and B a great 
sculptor and that it gets something out of the presence and the con- 
tact of these greatnesses (which it does: viz., the wrong thing). It 
believes that art is theory nicely applied — as a good engine 
is mechanics nicely applied ; a matter of teaching, prece- 
dent and "culture" ; not a matter of spontaneous vitality and aesthetic 
emotion forcing its own peculiar form. The cultured philistine is 
heteronomous by nature. The vague, third hand, falsely focussed 
satisfaction he derives from art knows nothing of inherent laws and 
irresistible organic growth. He does not understand — never can, 
never will understand — that before each new art form as a whole and 
before each separate product of art and before each artistic individu- 
ality as such, constant re-adjustment of mental approach is required. 

The Little Review 43 

He — or rather his epidermis — contacts everything in the same way 
and with the same demands and expectations. 

Sometimes he mentions the artist as a being different from him- 
self, a being of quicker vibrations, more sensitive perceptions and 
unusual waj^s of contacting life and transmitting life experience. But 
at the bottom of his heart he denies that the artist is di.. rent from 
himself. Lacking imagination, how can he conceive of that which is 
not a part of his world and his mental equipment? Therefore he 
treats the artist and his activities necessarily as he treats himself: a 
thing onto which empty generalities and inflexible rules and regula- 
tions can be pasted and stuck from the outside. 

Strange, this. It would never occur to this intelligent and cul- 
tured person that he might interfere and play the judge between 
two Chinamen, by merely babbling things in his own tongue, with- 
out the slightest knowledge of Chinese that might enable him first 
to find out what are the issues at stake and what is really "going on." 
He never suspects that art has a language of its own; a language not 
of words only, but of subtle reactions and ever shifting valuations 
taking place in the depths of the artist soul — and that a fair amount 
of knowledge of that language is indispensable for knowing what is 
at stake. He suspects still less that this language, however, is a matter 
of birthright and cannot be acquired by "butting in." 

So he goes on, interfering and talking. Talking — forever beside 
the point. And in his actual interference with mental and aesthetic 
processes backed up by material and physical power — the last "argu- 
ment" of his cultured self. 

Once upon a time — once upon a dark benighted time — learned 
judges and the then "cultured ones" they represented, innocent of 
psychology, of pathology, of scientific analysis and spiritual endeavor, 
applied instruments of torture to the flesh of other human beings 
whose mental states and reactions they did not, could not, understand. 
All with the laudable intention of driving out the devil — the devil 
of unfortunate insanity or luminous sanity, as the case might be — and 
of preventing contagion. But that was a few hundred years ago — 
and we don't torture bodies any more. . . . 

Quousque tandem. Cultured Philistine? 


44 T he Little Review 

Mr. Rodke?^ and Moder?i F?^e7ich Poetry 
by Muriel Ciolkowska 

WERE one to write every time one reads rubbish in news- 
papers one might do nothing else in one's life, but one 
has a duty towards a paper which publishes one's own 
name, therefore the following: 

"Poetry," asserts Mr. John Rodekr in your last, "dead in 
France since Verlaine — with only the exception of Apollinaire and 
de Gourmont — -appears to be looking up with M. Louis Aragon." 
The quotations show what Mr. Rodker means by "live" poetry. But, 
as he does not quote Gourmont, I am free to say that this great prose- 
writer — who sometimes wrote verse not at all like M. Aragon — is 
hardly claimed as one of them by poets not "alive" though I think 
they would say that as such he came nearer to them than does M. 
Aragon. The first part of this sentence is information; the second 
an opinion. I am also free to object to a general cemetery being 
made of: Henri de Regnier, Anna de Noaiiles, Paul Claudel. 
Guy-Charles Cros (the son), Renee Vivien, Charles 
Peguy, Lucie Delarue-Mardrus, Charles Vildrac, Spire, 
Andre Salmon, etc., which is really too ridiculous. I leave a margin 
for other protestators to fill with names of those who wrote contem- 
poraneously with or have written since Verlaine and whom the world 
ventures to qualify by the same term as Mr. Rodker applies to M. 
Aragon, whom I can hardly imagine will survive Mr. Rodker's praise. 
If Mr. Rodker has no liking for modern French poetry why 
does he trouble to write about it? 
Paris, January 6, 1921. 

To Mina Loy 
hy John Rodker 


T IS too bad. My own pet serpent turns upon me, and if you 
only knew with what incredible devotion she has been nursed 
in my bosom. And why has she bitten me? Because I can love 

The Little Review 45 

her like a frog, or can I? Yet were I, regardless of consequences to 
my more delicate anatomy, to love in a froggy way the carcase of 
American poets and poetesses whose very very cast-iron entrails have 
so lately been sung by the noble baroness, would not my very froggy 
embrace strenuously impel it to that not too remote star on which 
it has how long and how painfully striven to hitch itself? Surely; 
for even Miss Loy must know what the probable upshot of such action 
would be. Still, Mina, though you are not "big with gentle yielding" 
(oh not not not in a frogg}' way) now I know Kreymborg has written 
lines as good as that I take back humbly all I have said about him. 
As for Donald Evans you have quite missed the point, and herbarium 
is still herbarium. Froggy greetings to the fish. 

— How jolly that the snake charmer so gracefully parries his pet 
snake's indulgence in a little buffoonery. And so we can laugh to- 
gether for a moment, while Mr. Kreymborg clamours against free 

John Rodker — as one European to another, Mina Loy salutes 

you.] MINA LOY. 

The Wind-flowers of AsklepiadeSy and Poems of 
Poseidippos; The Poems of Melea^ar of Gadara 
Poets' Translation Series Second Set, Nos, 5 and 
6. The Rgoist, 2- and 2-6 net, 
by Ma?y Butts 

I HAD been re-reading the "Aphrodite" of Pierre Louijs in an 
unsuccessful attempt to induce a little excitement. (One has 
nothing to say against M. Loujs as a translator, and the "Chan- 
sons de Bilitis" are a most agreeable evocation, but the historical 
romance begotten by the modern mind on the mirror of the past is 
always base-born. I am not thinking of "Salambo" or "The Brook 
Kerith" but, reluctantly, of every other serious narrative reconstruc- 

46 The Little Review 

tion I have ever read.) 

But "Aphrodite" is sufficient to show that it is not enough to 
love 3'our period or proportion out its constituents — (two little 
Lesbians, one magnificent and one ageing hetaira, two stoics, an 
epicurean, and a person with doubts about the whole affair) — not 
enough to take a clairvoyant perception of the age's beautiful objects 
and their common use; you will only succeed in writing about your 
period, and the professor with style and imagination will put you in 
your place. 

M. Louys had a correct idea. He knew about the hieratic value 
women set on their beauties, from the most obvious to the rtiost 
intimate. In the opening chapters his courtesan catalogues her love- 
liness to the accompaniment of confirmation by her favorite slave. 
She works downwards from the rich hair by which she was known 
to the more practical part of her accomplishment : 

"Thy tongue is the bloody dagger that has made the 
wound of tliy mouth." 

"My tongue is inlaid with precious stones. It is red 
with the sheen of my lips." . . . 

"Thy thighs are two white elephants' trunks." 

"My feet are two nenuphar leaves upon the water." 
. . . There was a silence. . . . The slave bowed to the 
ground. "It is like a purple flower. . . . It is appalling. 
It is the face of the Medusa." 
And so on. Now listen to the contemporary voice: 

Plangon has laid in the vestibule of Kypris' temple a 
purple riding- whip and shining reins which helped to con- 
quer Philainis. 

Bring her, beloved Kypris, glory and fame without end. 

This inscription for a grave: 

I hold Arkheanassa, the hetaira of Kolophon, in whose 
very wrinkles lov^ lived. 

-T h e Lit tl e Review 47 

For those who prefer It under a different formula : 

Pour the wine and say again and again and yet again 
say Heliodora, rningle that sweet name with the wine. Give 
me the flower-crown of yesterday, wet with perfume, in 
memory of her. 

I have still in my mind, though shamefacedly, Lang's version 
of the lament for that same Heliodora, but Mr. Aldington's is prob- 
ably the best yet made : 

/ give thee tears, poor tears, all that is left ?ny love, 
to you, Heliodora, in Hades under the earth. On your 
tear-wet grave I lay the memory of our passion, the mem- 
ory of our affection. . . . 

This would seem to say — 'write about the life of your age, and 
trust a thousand years later to the permanence of your language, the 
sympathy of your translator.' 

^^ Scidpshiire^ 

My Khrist Kant somethin' be done about this man George G. 
Barnard. It aint Mikel Angerlo, an' it aint even Rodin. It's just 
mashed popatoz, and the fog end of the last censhury's allegory. 
Before he spoils all that good marble can't somebody tell him about 
Egypt and Assyria, or pay his ticket so he can go look at some 
sculpshure made by someon' who had some idea of stone as distinct 
from oatmeal mush an molarsses. Hasn't even the sense of stone one 
finds in Barroque. — Abel Sanders. 

The Little Review 

Thee I call'' Hamlet of JVedding-Ring' 

Criticism of IVilliam Carlos William's 
'^ Kora in Heir' and ivhy.., 

by Else von Freytag-Loringhoven 

In two parts 

Part I 


OT to be sentimental — of that you are fearfully- too fearfully afraid 
to escape suspicion — flaunt brazen cloak of inexperience right side 


lining; sentimentality. 
Male inexperience=brutality — 
Reaction to life — ununderstood. 
Baffles — troubles — unable to handle. 
Strangers in country — set in to live. 
No explorers! 

Cast-aways — on shore — shivering! 
Foreigners forever! 
castaways on shore — shivering! 

Scant cover cloak — no other garment fashioned for fear to go get — live 
merry — die trying. 

different shade of cloak prompted by sex. 
malebrute — intoxicated — turns "weeping willow" invariably! Outside cloak 

tatters — caution — tottering — (malebluster: "squared shoulders": I read 

All Story Weekly regularly) — lining visible. 
Inexperience shines forth in sentimentality — that masqueraded in brutality: 

Never strength is brutal — 
— unhesitating acknowledgement of necessity — removing infected limb by 

Action starting from brain — without noise — bluster — bluff. 
Strength not moans — wails — voice of indecision — weakness. 
Strength : decision — realizes trouble — remedy — instinctively — empiracally — 

scientifically — in accord — acts — hence — never regrets. 
Regrets: blind mental orbs. 
Quiet child of brain — logic: European war. 

T he Little Review 49 

Moral strength of scientist — surgeon — physician of degree. Vision. 
Brutality: child of denseness — inability to feel, think clean — lack of vision — 

vulgar blood-fogged brain — run amuck! 
Despair of helplessness to escape blindness of jungle vines of thought tangled 

— of waste barren, unfertile — violent action — noise — clamour: 
American lynchings. 

To undeveloped sentimentalist strength appears cruel — as all life does to fool. 
Life never is cruel — brutal — gentle — sympathetic — 
inhuman — impersonal — super-intelligence ! 
Logic — pure. 

Mathematical justice of scale balancing universe. 
No one is — does not receive to last grain value of what pays power — that 

weighs — tests coin. 
Who pays cheap — receives tawdry — counterfeiters step off fake-value in lap. 
Culture: experience. Flimsy cloak of shivering pauper — coward — replaced 

by glittering armour of knight — poised upon strength — knowledge. 
That aristocracy — 

value for value: daring for treasure — valour for deed. 
True to formula — male brute intoxicated bemoans world — (into that he 

never stepped) — his existence — all existence! 
Example: — Hamlet of Wedding-Ring: 
"WhatshallforFlosh — agh ? eckshishtensh — eck — eck — eck — shish — damn ! — 

life damn! wife damn! art damhc!!! Hellshotashhell — " 
Elaborately continued swing on trapeze in "circus of art" following this 

article — if tempted. 
In vino Veritas. 
Try it— W. C. 

Old observations minted wisdom. So old — handled — lose impression. 
True — profundity. 
Subconscious — unknown reason for prohibition in this country that never is — 

has been — run by intellect — sagacity — wisdom. 
Shortsighted people seeing as far as finger length. 
Boil proclaims disease — stop boil! 
Look pretty— quick! paint! — powder — ! perchance culture will be deceived— 

greet us as civilization — invite us into ancient castle aloft. 
Bluff— bluff— damn bluff! 

No time — no time — no time to fasten roots downward — become civilized nat- 
urally — inside slow progress — chemical logic — 
Let's appear it — outside! 
Put it on! 

N'est ce pas — mon bon ami, W. C. ? 
Americans not possessing tradition — not born within truth's lofty echoing 

walls — born on void— background of barren nothingness— handle such 

50 T he Little Review 

truth's coin — picked up — flippantly! 

S nous ess of mind — bad for business: flip it — be empty — 

"Forget it" — 


Forgot everything — to avoid trouble." 

Tradition — culture — responsibility — pride — honour: troublesome: smile sillily 

wise ! 
By problems stalked — unvanquished — fattening — wary. 
By avalanche destroyed! 
Lusty beast massed upon prey exhausted — 
ostrich — head in dollarheap. 
Life supreme — conquers — destroys: sophistication — flippancy — sarcasm — 

weapon of crudity — fatigue. 
Paper fortress of educated mental coward — bloodpauper: vulgarian disguised 

knight vanguished: America — France, 
guised vanquished knight: America — France. 
Flippancy — worse — flippancy is bad — tool of shallowness — consciencelessness 

— insincerity — in Wilde we see it — has to do with you, W. C. 
Still — Wilde is juggler with circus tradition. 
You — country lout — trying to step into tights. 
Juggle words — as balls — about feelings — impressions — 
such you have — no art! 

No rhythm — curves — science — conviction — background — tradition ! 
Where your circus? 
Where do you stand? 
What do your words mea ^ ? 
Never to point- — what point? 

There is none — carry no meaning — aimed at blank! 
No background — tapestry — spangled cloth — circus — arena — tradition — 
carry none! 

Uncreated — uncreative. 
No echo from — to — 
no carriage — resonance — 

feeble lost soul piping miserably in agony of despair — 
— no concern of ours — 
Stray words of unnourished — unevolved — decaying imagination — in abandon 

of disorder — conceit — despair — composure lost — juggled before public 

to deceive yourself — 
trying to deceive others! 

Vain fools do that — one way or other in life — called bluff — 
in America by no means despised — successfully carried off — 
cheap circus that! 
Let swirl — sometimes pretty — sometimes beautiful — sometimes strong even — 

T he Lit tie Re vie w 51 

all-times bad science — throughout unskilled — 

no right to perform. 

What do juggler's balls signify but skill of juggler? 

Balls must be importance — skill matter of course. ' 

Juggle significance with balls jewelled — 

that I mean: balls jeivelled — 

Keep person in background — 

physical presence forgotten: 

To you — 

to audience. 

Strength of you: brutality — makebelieve — phantasmogoria — cheating before 

limelight — hysteria! such it is. 
Grace — rhythm of juggler is strength. 
Grace — rhythm is strength: body — mind. 
I once saw supposed stagegiant lift huge weights — gesticulating — ferocious — 

heaving — sweating — ah very convincing — in farce. After exit tiny 

page — tiniest to emphasize effect — carried off ponderous cannon balls 

— jaunty! 

This shall be to you — you your best audience. 
Here simile ends: 

Life no farce — nor I tiny — nor would it be effective. 
Art — literature no farce — nor artist actor — permitted makebelieve. 
Life: circus of seriousness grim — as effigy — distinguished circus — also is. 
Science — skill — perfection — purpose in everything! 
Audience — performer — cultured — no cheating. 
Hoiv cultured is God? 

Perfection is purpose — of life — circus — to satisfy audience! 
Makebelieve shall be known as such — must be brilliant in performance — 
more magic — more skill — tit for tat — 

something must be given in exchange for applause — no amateurish bluff car- 
ries laurels — 
Clumsiness: disguised strength {not vice versa, IV. C.) — agility — technique 

Nothing in circus funny — easy — for performer — unless in breathing-space 

during rest. 
Performance — action — work: breathless — highest tension. 
Clown — sauntering leisurely — aimlessly — taut in muscle — brain — to purpose — 

carries point. 
Truly great actor more seriously in character he carries — slips into: than 

you — W. C. — are in what you try to show off in: force. 
Force ripples — vibrates life — muscle in action one visible form. 

52 T he Lit tie Review 

You: brittle — breaking — decaying iron — eaten by rustworm. 

Blood tingles with repugnance: that vain vanity! 

You surely are in hell! 

Ignore I would that — not would blood tingle — iv/iere there is not blood hidden 

This no way out. 

Gleefully W. C. discovers — (let's participate in discovery if not in glee — 
stunned to meet mummy wavering along highway of art — ghastly! not 
to W. C. : makes practice out of dancing with dead things — has to 
dance with some things — can not afford palpitating things — takes 
corpse — handy) : 

"The imagination goes from one thing to the other" — 

(like stray flea!) 

Do say! ! ! 

"The age of humans is told by the hair" — 

Mummy — fade to catacomb — shoulder to shoulder with sister shade — 

out of dictionary — 

W. C.'s flea so unmannerly — disobedient — untrained — 

by careless mistake let into circus — jumps upon shimmer-raked sensitive 
arena sawdust — prepared for meticulous* delicious design — criss-cross 
— naughty — vulgar — apish ! 

Subconscious guilt (is there better proof of hidden knowledge of impotence — 
sidelong glancing bad conscience?) makes W. C. send nurse after run- 
away pet — making apologies for hilarious rioting from common-sensed 
tender-swelling matron bosom to invite understanding — admiration — 
love for snookums' uncouth romping — indecent postures — smirking: 
temperament — patient audience — 

(aside:) jackasses! 

Voice of nurse: 

"The arrangement of the Notes (!) each following its (!) Poem (!) and 

separated from it by a ruled line — " 

My voice in audience: 

Resourceful bourgeois ! 

painstaking doctor!! 

loving papa! ! ! 

Be trainer — flea master — ! 

Stray flea vermin — 

Tom — Dick — Harry — houses — no luxury hours to cuddle. 

Circus flea artist — 

every jump active consciousness! 

*This word dedicated solely to Marcel Duchamp. Gave It to me with 
tongue lilt emanation of spirit — H is he. 

TheLittleReview 53 

Alcohol unsettles — dethrones caution — removes mask — exhibits soul's true 


America's soul in such condition — she even realized — had to do something! 

With shallowness — flippancy — not unfamiliar in politics of this lumbering 
blunderer — helpless giant on infant's feet — knuckles for brains — alto- 
gether freak — forthwith decided to hide disease beneath artificial 
complexion — over-paint boils — blemishes — mask ill — vulgar features — 

factorygirl America. 

One does not help soul in merely depriving it of drug. 

What does America offer instead? 


Hence W. C: 

With shreds of intellect — reason — imagination — heirlooms scattered — torn — 
ravaged — from timeremoved Spain — by ancestor — hale — whole — nor 
Jew nor American — 

with United States carloads of conceit of inexperience — 

vain boy — mature only in years — business — not in veins — emotion: 

that most desolate of lonelinesses: not to have grown — developed — ad- 
vanced in experience of blood with advancing years — most hideous 

immature man! 

Oiie has to learn to be grown-ups. 

Castaway on shore of life — stranger to experience — 

fugitive from emotion — 

coward of blood: 

starving — crying for food — cloth — to cover naediiess — emotions shattering 
in barrenness — provided no sheltering garment — carressing folds! for 
ornament — to be gay with — proud — to adorn him with — in splendour — 
man's estate — to be precious — worth name ! 

Mans woman's womans more so I — too cowardly to go get — live merry — die 
trying — 

in courage happiness — in defeat self-respect — in death dignity — corpse vic- 
torious — 

never in cowardice! 

S.iouid it look ever so proper — safe! — hedged — bordered — by frontlawn — 

bungalow — bankaccount — town esteem.: shell for self-contempt — hoivever 

thick that may be — by: either own voluptuousness — (shall I say "sumptuous- 
ness," W. C. ? — reminds me of startling answer! piercing radiance 
regarding your relationship to words — baffling attitude toward art — 
shall relate it later on) or callousness of possessor — kernel is felt — 
felt by W. C. 

Hence, W. C: 

54 T he Lit 1 1 e Review 

With audacity of inexperience— cowardice of insincerity— distinct— peculiar 
not surprising — characteristic of all representatives of races of lost 
foothold : 

no convictions— none to stand on— for— fight with— for— ideal of family cave 
— only one — tottering in primitive insufficiency all around where occurs 
some growth — development — evolution in brain cells — : in intellect fed 
by senses — stirred by imagination — ambassador of instincts — tottering 
even around about W. C. with heavy clumsy brain — atavistically 
handicapped by Jewish family tradition — sentiment — where shall wis- 
dom — (child of conviction — courage — intense concentration — that must 
take place of primitive thread-bare ideal — as does in Europe) — come 
from in America — destroyer of value — creator never — 

unless in sense negative — creating disgust — revolt — in developed inhabitants — 

by decree of pawer as everything serves ultimate goal. 

God is God — 

stronger than chaos — 

foe to disorder. ' 

Bad things yeast to raise revolt in dough — achieve right balance in cake. 

Far still is world from being cake — well-baked — 

raisins — with tissues tender — feel lumpiness of dough most — scream — tell — 

I feel W. C.s stagnation — fake-gesture — tell scream: 

Familycave crumbling — shedding mortar — tottering — debris-littered — dingy- 
looking sty — no joy — not holding nails to parade — flaunt ornament — 
pride of spendthriftly generous — rich heart — more dire necessity to 
system of every creature: scent — song — dip — dance — colour — play — 
to: flower — fish — bird — racoon — Indian — us — than material necessi- 
ties — foundation to start ecstasies! Needs airship hangar to fly from — 
not to be overshadowed by — tied to — swallowed up — wiped out — 
shackled to cowardice of immobility — American mistake of dense 
vulgar brains rendering W. C.'s legs immovable — agonized arms out 
— thrust — vile curse of helpless rage on sneering lip distorted — 
doomed to torture — tries to swing up into: dip song — scent — colour — 
play — t/iat miserable fashion. 

Feet incased by faulty foundations decay — debris — stone — dust — to escape 

cave partly — leffs entombed. 
Cowardice — insufficiency — incapability not encases legs: immovable legs 

produce immovable brains. 
Around us result of family cave: encased legs — brains — in faulty founda- 
tions' debris: America. 
W. C.'s "art" faulty foundation — crumbling walls — 
hysterical doings — 

to ward off fate — dimly realized — by degree to smother alive: 
Squirms — thrashes — blasphemes — howls — telling himself — us: it — be music! — 

TheLittleRevieu) 55 

undaring — incapable to extricate himself — right — decisive — strong — 
clean action of man — 
neurasthenic — 

amount of acting to escape action — 

overdone — wild — weak gestures — violent — incoherent — utterances — to dis- 
guise condition — : crippledom — 
above everything — from oivn consciousness; 

Shall we extend pity — endure — recognize — honor: — agony — grimaces — howls 
— writhings of cripple — needing nurse — death — in art-circus's arena — 
performers — who belong — have strength tested — ability — genius — 

He no raisin — yeast! 
Circus has freak show — 
life — shadow — hospital — prison — 
his place ! 

Stagnation creates revolt — 

life suppressed will scream — since life is life — 
even in America: 

W. C. screams — I — zu/io more artful? 
Hence my right to judge: expel fake performer — amateur — freak — to v.>here 

Silly impudent cripple — tactless — ill in brain with family — cavetrouble de- 
formities — indignities — infirmities — weaknesses — wounds — sores — j ab- 
Get well — die ! 
Keep place. 
From rudeness of title to crude triteness of content "Kora in Hell" does 

make me scream — struggle against insult to life's beauty — dignity — 

splendour — nobility — harmony — sense — raisins are aware of — have to 
guard against mob-attack — lynchring — ! bring knowledge along in 
tissues — blood of body — ancient wine in cobvvebbed old bottle. 
Life: sense! 

Art never insults life! loves — caresses every form — shape. 
Who hates — insults life — proves pariah. 
Thee I call "Hamlet of wedding-ring" — chasing ghost of honeymoon bliss — 

to detect who poisoned — killed — once live body. 
Circumstance primarily — individually — insignificant — since not can blood 

be filled into extinct withered-away tissue. 
Of secondary — social — importance for reason of exploration — civilization. 
Life — joy — onward movement — sensuous rush of hour must not be restricted 

— upheld. 
King's throne never is empty because king is murdered — king is immortal — 
tradition's progressive law — God's law. 


















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58 T he Lit tie Review 

Revenge: emotion uncreative — orbs in back of skull — unadvancing — cells 
stagnant — sentimental — unconstructive memory — dwelling in ceme- 
terygarlanding grave of honeymoon bliss — life's ony sad duty — ! 
hugging skeleton — "dancing with dead things" (such dance becomes 
habit with stagnant cells) — hiding — retreating from swoop of time — 
brilliant — open battle — stupid sacrifice of present to past — of blood to 
past — of future to past. Present future's — creator's — time — to plant — 
faster creation — action — future — not for past — revenge — destruction. 

No great revolution — war — ever has been — logically could not be — backmo- 
tion — impulse secondary! but: step of change — expansion — pulse: 
impulse primary — fall of leaves. 

Revenge: backwash: 

Winter: summer's logical successor — killer by necessity — for advancement — 
new bloom. 

Nature sits in nature's lap: one two — two one — action — contra — action — 
clash — new life. 

After detection Hamlet unable to decide on action befitting system — tem- 
perament of: either artist — philosopher — or man — soldier — not suffi- 
cient system — temperament in evidence. Reads philosophy with mind 
incapable either to use — leave it. Unfit. Youth old — sapped of stamina 
— unfertile emotions — robbed — cheater of strength to shape character — 
l/iat makes take stand. 

Weakling — wails ! 

Doing amount of acting to escape action — 

suited Shakespeare — 

put Hamlet into play to parade unfitness. Solution: annihilation — death. 

He had Hamlet — I have you. 

At that time — many more hysterical alleys — byways — to avoid facing prob- 
lem — than prince of Denmark discovered — Hamlet's trod — 

did not toot through megaphone agonies of crippledom into — public from 
street corners — thoroughfares — calling it "art." 

Would have cost dear in ridicule — "pillory" — danger: being stoned to death 
for disorderly conduct — public insult. 

Tradition — touchstone — sensitive to forms of life: 

Genius — straight shapes — shapes mediocre — misshapes. 

Tradition's necessity precious result: 

to produce strong pure type for high places — find every one's place: 

weakling into mediocrity — sordidness — annihilation. 


Democracy makes cripples conceited — gives fools chances — helps weakling — 
lout — to place where does not belong. 

The Little Review 59 

Not God's way. 

God's way long service. 

Chances must not be easy. 

Nature — power — God — : selective — aristocratic — : tradition — aimed for per- 

One logically contains other: selection — discard. 

Uncontaminated justice. 

Where pity? 

Aristocracy: fitness to fulfill obligation — 


Aristocrat is born — as artist is. Civilization's business to make conscious of: 
caste of culture. 

Aristocrat's high social station — estate to uphold that — hangar for airplane — 
to do exalted business unhampered — as is king's throne — crown — sym- 
bols for exalted duty that takes exalted strength — t/iat is splendor. 

Demand of continous individual happiness — densest lack of logic — iindevelop- 
ment — primitive — rank — unreasoning animal — desire — vulgar — plebian. 
— no aristocrat is guilty of. 

To be human: part of spirit — know ivill. 

Blood — instinct — turn to brain cell — intellect — light. 

For exclusively that reason blood circulates flesh. 

Sun — earth — to — fro — to — fro electric current — exchange. 

Bliss — woe fruit from tree — shell — nut — nut — shell — nuttree — fragrant in 
paradise — slandered by Jehova. 

Emotion: soul's gymnastic — mothersoil: sex — march onward — motion up — ! 

Every sinewy scintillating jerk — curve — twist — distortion — of snake: to per- 
fect ultimate goal — : unit. 

in perfect circle holding tanl with lip. 

in perfect circle holding tail with mouth. 

God's booming laugh. 

Snake dance: south — 

Snake circling earth: ..Norse myth. 

Primitive organism — in profundity constructed sound — feels life's sense — 
sensuous dance — in sorrow profoundest — red deathwound: joy — ex- 
hilaration — in simplicity — as did Goethe — in wisdom: 


"Wer nie sein Brod mit Trahnen ass — 
Wer nie die kumniervollen Nachte 

Auf seinem Bette weinend sass 

Der Kennt euch nicht ihr himmlishen Machte." 
Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe. 

60 T he Lit 1 1 e Review 

Body's comfort — discomfort — ache — bliss of organism — nil ! 

Emotion — spirit moving — woe — bliss dancing — lifecrest — supreme Nietzsche! 

Nietxsche — Goethe — century later: disintigrating — breaking culture — for ac- 
quisition of new blood — for that must blood be spilled — expansion — 

With Nietzsche war started, 
light — step up ! 

All Teutons. 

American — jew — equals — not repulsing each other for that reason — as — 
through tradition's wisdom — jew does european — asiatic — in luhom re- 
sides bloodknoivledge. 

American — jew of future. 

Today in newness not noted — tradition ignorant to existence. 

In materialism callous — brain dense — plebianism — jew — american — meet. 

God's goal: body to soul — material to spirit — arriving at Himself. 

In Europe "Kora in Hell" never had had chance! 

In Europe W. C. no need do that! — he ivould not be. 

Jew mixture — in Europe — not as castaway — spirit-desertd : 

Heine: aristocratic artist product — teuton-hebrew. 

As poet only. 

In lilt of his no ring of distempered jewharp in lilt that shattered to splinters 
by waters of Babylon. 

Artist soul of Heine noble teutonic metal — purest ring. , 

Today — in future days — no Heine can be born in Europe. 

Times change — 

current strong — 

jews stagnant — 

degree — further — 

ruined. . . . 

{to be continued) 




At Bookstores $ Im^O 

Recor?t77iended to you by The l^ittle Review 

The Reader Critic 

JValter ShaiVy Ne^v York: 

May I ask in the name of art why next month you will "report all the 
blatant ineptitudes of the court proceedings," and answer them? 

Surely none of your audience gives a damn what the court says; we 
have all reached that stage of sophistication, so why use up good paper on 
subjects with which we have no concern? It is purely a matter for your 
business manager to get out of as easily as possible — unless you still believe 
in "progress" and the possibility of education by yelling about "injustice"; 
but even then it is a matter of sociology — not at all within the field of art. 

But what is within the field of aesthetics: As one of your audience who 
does not feel "Ulysses" is a work of art (no one with whom I have dis- 
cussed "Ulysses" considers it more than "interesting") I suggest or perhaps 
have the right to demand, since you agree with Coomaraswamy that the 
rasika has a duty to prove his contention that a certain work is art, a criti- 
cism of "Ulysses" from you. 

This is within your field and not an answer to the organized stupidity 
of the non-aesthetics. 

[These things do not go by duty and obligation but by necessity. 
You have no more right to demand that the critic make a new work 
of art (his criticism) than you have a right to demand the original 
work of art. Certainly the critic has to prove his case if he has the 
necessity to make other men see and believe what he has perceived; 
but no one can demand it of him. 

"Ulysses" has been running in the Little Revieiv for three years. 
There have been many discussions in that time about Mr. Joyce as an 
artist and about different aspects of "Ulysses." If you and your 
friends who think it only interesting have not the perception or the 
grace to know that Joyce is an artist, then no second sight could come 
to you, I fear. 

If you have not seen him tight-rope-walking the cobweb of the 
human consciousness, conceiving and executing the rhythms of un- 
spoken thought; if you have not seen Mr. Bloom spring full-fledged 
from his own brain; if you haven't the carefully organized, master- 
fully coloured abstract picture of the mind of Dublin; if you have not 
got the luminosity of his genius, nothing will help you but a work .of 
equal magnitude which no one could write and which you again would 
not understand. — jli.) 


In poems by Philippe Soupault beginning page 26: 

"Flamme" — first line — "dechiree." 

"Dimanche" — last line — "sourire." 

"Route" — last line — "caillou." 

"Horizon" — last line — "reviendrai." 

In poem on page 17, "Mer d'Huile" — first line — "Si nous" . . . etc. 

{Lti Stgnalalra J* c* mant/tite hailUnI ta Frantt, Tj^mlrlqae. I'EtpagiU, 
tjHlemagtu, I'lioU; la 5(i(iw. ta Btiglvvt. tU-. matt n'ani oucunt nalhnaluO 


DADA connaft tout. DADA crache tout. 





ds ritalie 
♦* des accordions 

. O des pantalons de femnaes 

de la patrie 

des sardines 

de Fiume 

de I'Art (tous exag^rez cher ami) 

de la douceur 

^-♦* de d'Annunzio 

.O quelle horreur 

de rh6roIsme 

des moustaches 

de la luxure 

de coucher avec Verlaine 

de I'id^al (II est gentil) 
^_^^ du Massachussetts 

^\J du pass£ 

des odeurs 

des salades 

du g£nle . du g^nle . du g^nie 

Q*' de la journ^e de 8 heures 

et des Tiolettes de Parroe 


DADA ne parle pas. DADA n'a pas J'idee fixe. DADA n'attrape pas les mouckes 


Le futurisie est mort. De quol ? De DADA 

Une jeune fille se suicide. A cause de quoi ? De DADA 

_A On t^l^phone aux espritt. Qui est-ce I'inventeur ? DADA 

. O On vou« maiche «ur le« piedi. C'est DADA 

^ Si voua avex dei idtes «4rieuse« sur la vie, 

. ^ Si VOU8 faites des d^couverlea artistiques 

*\ ^ et »i tout d'un coup voire t4le se met Ik cr^piter de rire, 

O ti vous trouvez toutes vos idtes tnutiles et ridicules, sachez que 


*Issued at the contra-Marinetti demonstration in Paris recently. 

le cubisme constrult una cath6cirole en pat6 da Toie artlsticiue 

Que fait DADA ? 

lexpresslonnlsme empolsonne l«s sardrnos artlstlques 

Que fait DADA ? 

le slmultan^lsmo en est encore & ea premiere communion artistlque 

Que fait DADA ? 

le futu^isme veut monter dans un lyrlsme + ascenseur artistlque 

Que fait DADA ? 

lunanlnlsme embrasse le toutlsme et p6che A la llgne artistlque 

Que fait DADA ? 

le n^o-classlcisme d^couvre les blenfalts de lart artistlque 

Que fait DADA ? 

le paroxysme fait lo trust de tous les fromages artlstlques 

Que fait DADA ? 

Vultraisme recommande le melange de ces 7 choses artlstlques 

Que fait DADA ? 

le cr6aclonisme le vortlctsme limaglsme proposent aussi quelciu«s recettes artistlQues 

Que fait DADA ? 

Que fait DADA ? 

50 francs de recompense a celui qui trouve le moyen de nous expliquer 


Dada passe tout par un nouveau filet. 

Dada est I'amertume qui ouvre son rire sur tout ce qui a ete fait consacre oublie dans noire 
langage dans notre cerveau dans nos habitudes. II vous dit : Voila I'Humanite et les bell 
sottises qui lent rendue heureuse jusqu'a cet age avanci 




Citoyens, camarades. mesdames, messieurs, 
M6fiez-vou8 des contrefacons I ^P 

Iisa imitateurs de DADA veulent vous presenter DADA sous une forme artistlque qu'il n'a 
jamais eue 


On vous presents aujourd'hui sous une forme pornographique, uti esprit vulgaire et baroque 

qui n'est pas I'IDIOTIE PURE riclaxaie par DADA 


PtJtM 12 Janviet ig^r E. Varese, Tr. Tzara, Ph. Soupault, Soubeyian, J. Rigaul, 

G. Ribemont-Dessaignes, M. Roy. F, Ficabia, B. P^ret, 
Pour toute information C. Pansaers, R, Huelsenbeck, J. Evola, M, Ernsl, P. Eluard, 

S:air,,zer " AU SANS PAREIL " S"t; P^r'Tif 'f?. ^"'p'^^^P' j;-'-''"!' G- Canlarelli, Mar^. 

Bullet, Oab. Bullet, A. Breton, Baargela, Arp, \\. C Arens- 
37, Avenue K]6ber. Tel. PASSY 25-22 berg, L. Aragon. 







Sherwood Anderson 

51 East 44th St. 

New York 




'!( .; 

. -^ 


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A 'i svcA 

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